Redfish, Bluefish, Sheefish, Snook: Far-Flung Tales of Fly-Fishing Adventure

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The Fish That Nobody Knows
Sheefish
Stendous leucichthys

As Einar Fleagle backed off the outboard’s throttle and eased the skiff up into the slough, we felt the snowmelt-driven surge of the Kuskokwim recede behind us. Stately conifers formed a towering canopy overhead, muting the sound of the river. Threading the boat through a maze of fallen logs, Einar idled another quarter mile inland before he killed the motor. After the long run downriver the slough’s current felt imperceptible, but as our momentum faltered and died we slowly began to drift backward. Over 200 miles from the nearest highway, the remote backwater had everything to offer but witnesses.

Despite the latitude, the density of the vegetation along the banks suggested a tropical setting and reminded me oddly of Costa Rica. Although we were between salmon runs—too late for kings, too early for silvers—fresh bear trails wandered through the brush and wolf tracks dotted the mud along the waterline. As the whine of eager mosquitoes began to fill the air, I felt a string of adjectives filter through my brain: spooky, spectacular, intimidating.

The loneliness of our surroundings aroused anew the strange personal ambivalence toward the Far North I’ve wrestled with for decades. Eight years’ residence on the Kenai Peninsula left me with a rich network of friends around the state and a feel for Alaska’s quirky majesty that even the most ambitious tourist could never attain. But somehow, my frequent return trips north always left me feeling like a failure. There was just no escaping the fact that I had stared the wilderness in the eye, blinked, and returned south to Montana like a scolded puppy. Now even when I’m enjoying a glut of Alaska’s fish and game, it’s hard to avoid the impression that the Far North is taunting me for choking at the line twenty years earlier.

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