Off the Charts: Arctic River Dragons

Off the charts:

Arctic River Dragons

By: OLIVER ANCANS // Photos by: OLIVER ANCANS and TYLER SCHWAB

During the winter of 2021, I received an invite on a trip from my buddy Jay who had a repeat excursion in mind. Although they found some fish the year before, they had been plagued by high water and bad weather. The previous year’s trip had been tough, and they felt redemption was in order.

During the months prior to the trip, our initial group of six dropped to a group of four. I was tasked with finding and vouching for addition al members to fill the empty spots. After asking around with no commitments, we were discussing push ing forward with just four people. Before I agreed, I knew of one more person I could ask. I reached out to my friend Tyler, who had expressed interest in some of our earlier trips into the tundra. There was no delay in his response, he was coming.

“There had been a few negative bear encounters on the river this season”

I was fresh off a different 13-day float trip and recovering from a short bout with COVID-19, but too excited to let the exhaustion creep in. The four of us left Fairbanks and flew to meet up with Tyler at the Ted Stevens In ternational Airport.

We checked the weather and water levels while we had cell phone service, everything was falling into place. We boarded the commercial flight to a Village where we would take bush flights to our destination. Upon our arrival, we spoke with some locals who told us that the fishing had been outstanding, but there had been a few negative bear encounters on the riv er this season. We would need to re main vigilant and keep a clean camp.

As we sipped beers in the sunshine outside of our hotel, we discussed fishing tactics and what to expect from the river.

Cruising low over the tundra

The next morning, we walked to the bush plane hangar where a pris tine Cessna sat awaiting our gear. We loaded the plane with most of our gear then Jay and Tyler hopped in and departed. After a few hours, the small plane returned empty and ready for our final flight. Brad, Rich ard, and I boarded, and we flew out over the ocean where we could see seals chasing pods of Salmon.

I excitedly asked the pilot for every single river name that crossed our path for potential future trips. We cruised low over the lush green Tundra, looking for caribou and bears. The pilot explained that this had been the best weather they had seen all summer, 60 degrees and sunny is very abnormal for Au tumn this far north.

Jay and Tyler came running to ward us as we touched down on the gravel bar. Tyler excitedly slung out his camera and began scrolling through pictures of a fish that Jay had caught. Before the plane even left the ground, we had our waders on, and fly rods rigged with huge gaudy multicolored Dolly llamas and sink tip lines.

Large shadows milling around

Jay had already caught our intend ed species, so we all enthusiastically casted toward the far bank and stripped our flies across the current. We could see large dark shadows milling around mid-river but were unable to identify them until Jay shouted, “Fish!”.

All of us reeled up our lines and sprinted down the shoreline toward him. What ever he had hooked was taking line and bullying his 8wt. As he gained line and pulled the fish into the shallows, the in distinguishable black, tan, and red vertical stripes of a chum salmon rolled along the surface. Brad scooped it up in his net and Jay excitedly pounced on it.

All of us reeled up our lines and sprinted down the shoreline”

It was an impressive chum, pushing 15-20 pounds and looking mean as hell with a humped back, kyped jaw, and gnarly snag gled teeth. A few hours passed and each of us had caught a few chums, so we decid ed to make our camp and eat our freezedried dinners. The salmon had been an unexpected bonus, but we were there for a very different anadromous fish.

A fish of epic proportions

The next day, we hiked a few miles from camp. We fished every hole, riffle, seam, and pocket but the river felt empty except for the salmon.

Tyler and I fished together while Jay, Brad, and Richard wandered further from camp. After a few hours, we be gan to question whether our intended species was even there in targeta ble numbers.

“The fish was a dolly varden, a species of anadromous char, and in the arctic, they can grow to the most epic proportions”

Tyler and I stopped at the tailout of a long meandering shallow run and waded in. I unhooked my fly tossing it into the water a few feet from my boots but as I lifted my rod to cast, my line went tight. As I set the hook, a small red belly flashed toward me before darting down the river. I pulled the fish in quickly. It was fi nally the correct species but not the size we were after. I released the fish, then tossed my fly out to recast but as I lifted my rod, again, my line went tight. This time, the fish was much larger.

I turned and shouted to Tyler, “they are up shallow, right under our feet!”. He took a couple of steps back, then stopped and stared intensely into the river. He carefully prepared his cast, like he was stalking a spooky bonefish on the Florida flats. He cast, stripped once, and lifted his rod. A short bat tle ensued while Tyler grinned ear to ear. The fish was a dolly varden, a species of anadromous char, and in the arctic, they can grow to the most epic proportions.

Leaving fish to find fish

Our evening continued and a few more large dolly’s were brought to hand but we knew they grew big ger. We snacked on granola bars and sipped whiskey by the fire, plotting for the following day. We knew some of the char here were the stuff of leg end, but it became apparent that they would not be found easily.

The next morning, we drank French-pressed coffee along with our high-calorie bars and freezedried breakfast skillets. I do not bring many luxuries into the back country, but I have grown to appreciate a good cup of coffee on a crisp Autumn morning. We paired off again, Tyler and I hiking far away from the other group members. We fished streamers most of the day, but the fishing remained mediocre aside from the abundant chums gobbling up our flies when we swung them too close to their spawning redds.

I decided to walk off alone, away from the rest of the group so I could think. The big dollies had to be there, we were catching a few decent fish but not the expected numbers or sizes. I stopped at a short fast run and during my first swing through, a very large chrome fish pummeled my streamer.

When dollies are fresh from the ocean, their fight resembles a bright steelhead’s, with audible water tearing runs and flailing acrobatics. But when they get fatigued and see a hu

man with a net approaching, they begin to spin tangling leaders, tearing net mesh, and shredding flies beyond use.

“I turned around and shouted “bear!”

After releasing the fish, I made a few more casts but to no avail. As I looked out over the river, I could see chums stacked up on a patch of gravel, with their fins protruding from the water like tailing permit. Could it be that simple? I thought. I bit off my fly and removed my sink tip.

I dug around in my bag to find an egg-sucking leech that I had tied with a bead as the egg portion of the fly. I cut the shank of the hook rendering the fly useless, but I had what I wanted. I constructed a bead rig out of leftover pieces from previous fish ing endeavors and found a single indicator hidden away in a pocket of my waders.

No sooner did I lob a cast behind those spawning salmon did my in dicator dart upstream. Another large chrome dolly flashed and bolted through the water column. I released the fish and strode back toward Tyler.

Put a bead on!

As I approached, I asked him how the fishing was. He said, “I don’t think there are many here.” Then he leered at my rig and I said, “you should put a bead on”. While he changed his setup, I cast to some grayling swirling around in a deep pool. I told him I was fishing behind the chums, so he waded out toward a cluster of salm on and began to fish. His indicator dipped and that all-telling red belly flashed. We celebrated as it was the largest fish of the trip so far but as the light faded and the sun dipped below the trees, we decided to head toward camp.

A few miles later, while Tyler was be hind me making a couple of passing drifts, I saw a large silhouette saun tering up the bank 200 yards away. I turned around and shouted “bear!”. Bears in the Arctic are very danger ous. They are not used to having easy meals and will often stalk and attack humans. Luckily, the bears had all the rotting salmon flesh they could eat on this river. The grizzly crossed the river and me andered away uninterested and un intimidated by our presence. We told the others at camp about the bear, they looked at us in disbelief. We en sured them the bear was only a cou ple hundred yards from our tents, so we needed to maintain a tidy camp.

Ready to see new water

We had fished hard through the same area for the past two days, and I was ready to see new water. Tyler insisted we return and fish it again as he had hooked a large dolly the day pri or and was determined to catch that fish. I reluctantly agreed and we began walking, fishing the same water but searching for something new.

Every time someone would try and switch back to a streamer, the chums would often be the only takers. The grayling and dollies seemed to be keyed in on salmon eggs and were uninterested in eating much else.

The Grayling there were mostly black with a white-tipped dorsal fin resembling the daunting termination dust on the high mountain fortress surrounding the river. They looked old, scarred, and beaten up with large scales magnifying their deep blue skin.

Every time someone hooked one, they blurted out “big fish!” only to be pleasantly surprised to have hooked a stubborn grayling. They fought hard, bending our 8wts and leverag ing the current with their long dorsal fins and there were plenty of them to be caught.

We took turns netting each other’s fish and taking pictures. We were getting sun and wind burned but the weather was so pleasant, that we just flipped up our hoods and kept fishing.

Another chum?

Tyler jumped ahead and cast into the middle of a run near some salmon. I hiked around him as he fished and stopped at the top of the run, some where I had skipped the day before. As I cast, he hooked up and shout ed for the net, but my indicator sub merged, and I stared as an enormous fish rolled near the surface.

“Throughout the trip, everyone would catch more than a few of their own trophy fish”

Tyler yelled; “never mind, it’s a chum” referring to his fish. I didn’t say anything, as my fish moved into faster water. I dropped my rod tip down stream and pulled toward shore. Ty ler unhooked his salmon and looked up to see me working my way downstream. He moseyed up and asked, “is it big?”. I replied, “yeah” as that was all I could muster. It pulled and felt heavy as hell. Tyler asked, “it is a chum?”. “I don’t think so, it looked like a big dol ly”, I replied. Tyler hopped up on the high bank to take a better look, then immediately went for the net.

After a few minutes, I pulled the fish close and it dodged the first swipe of the net, but Tyler scooped it up on the second pass. I threw my rod up on shore out of excitement and rushed over to grab the tail of this fish as only half of it fit in the net. Tyler jumped up to grab his camera while I sat in awe of this fish.

We measured and photographed the dolly. It took its time recovering from the battle, but I was not wor ried, we landed it quickly, kept it in deep water, and only fully removed it for a second or two. I stared at its wrinkly olive-colored back and fiery orange belly, its scarred face, and its exaggerated kype. It began to kick then swam off into the depths, looking like an irritated old timer, annoyed that I had interrupted his lunch. I stopped fishing for a few hours and reflected on that fish. What an abso lute privilege, what an honor to hold something like that. Throughout the trip, everyone would catch more than a few of their own trophy fish.

Leaked rafts and soaked gear

Over the next 6 days, we floated downstream in leaky rafts which soaked our gear. We battled wind, and rain, but found scattered pockets of dolly varden, chum salmon, and grayling. The further we floated, the fewer salmon we encountered, and the fresher the dollies became.

Jay began to catch fish on a gurgler and before we knew it, everyone was fishing topwater patterns. The fish would often charge and follow a fly for a long time before finally grabbing on and dragging it under. This seemed to be everyone’s favorite part of the trip as the fresh dollies hit and fought a lot harder than their colorful counterparts.

We drank whiskey and cooked a few dolly varden over the fire. The bears kept to themselves except for a young grizzly that wanted to walk through our camp on the way to his fishing spot. He was easily scared off and I explained to the others that any bear around camp is not only trouble for us but bad for the bear as he could be shot if he got too comfortable around humans.

As the buzz of our flight out came into earshot, Ty ler pointed out how some leaves had begun to change from green to bright yellow and that the tundra had begun to turn red. There was a chill in the air as the long Arctic winter was fast approaching and there would be snow on the ground in a few short weeks.