Midstream Encounter With A Berserk Lunker (The following article, which I wrote, appeared some years ago in Fishing East, published by the late Warren Stanton; friend, former boss and one helluva guy.) By Brian Small The brute was angry now, tailwalking wildly downstream and coming RIGHT AT ME. I'd given up all hope of reeling in the slack. It had become a matter of survival as I stood calf-deep in an ice cold Arctic stream--and I didn't fancy my chances. The monster flipped over onto its side, lurched into the water for a moment, then thrashed back onto its tail, still bearing down on me. Now it was getting close, and I scrabbled and lurched toward the bank. Suddenly I remembered my beer, just opened, wedged in the crotch of a small tree branch that hung out over the stream. "Damn," I muttered to myself, "that's the last cold beer." The fish had stopped crashing for a moment, and I lunged knee deep through the numbing water and rescued the Budwiser. I scuttled over the slippery stones, clutching the useless rod in one hand and the beer in the other, just as the fish jammed it in reverse and headed upstream. Tony and I had been camping for eight days, and I must have been a sight, to scare off that monster. Safely on the bank, I set the beer against a roundhead and watched the 12-pound line V into the current. I knew the fish would go wild again if I exerted any pressure on the spinner hanging from its lower jaw, but from where I was on high ground at least it couldn't get at me now. Miraculously the line hadn't snagged on any obstruction and I reeled in the slack. BANG!! The monster tore upstream furiously, making the drag scream like a banshee. I couldn't even slow the bastard down, and now realized when the line all ran out it was going to be an ultralight rod snapped into match wood, and 100 yards of monofiliment trailing the lunker all the way to the Bering Sea. In the end I got off lucky--Just as the last few turns of line were ripped from the reel, I watched the lure pop from the fish's mouth and shoot 30 feet in the air. Thankfully the fish was gone, and I still had all parts intact. I quickly retrieved the lure, hoping against hope that it wouldn't get hit again by another lunker. I realized now that a person could get seriously hurt fishing for trout in these northern waters. The morning had started serenely enough--we grunted and huffed out of the tent and into the warm morning sunshine. Strangely, the sun was not far from where it had been at midnight, still a handspan above the treeless horizon. We were above the Arctic Circle, travelling the Dalton Highway in northern Alaska, and camping on a hill overlooking the tundra. We shared breakfast with the monotonous haze of mosquitos that circled endlessly, looking for a break through our armour of nylon netting. Every once in a while, one of the desperadoes would embark on a kamikaze mission, committing suicide by diving headfirst into the scalding coffee. Other less brave critters landed in the instant porridge, or on the spoon, and tried to sneak inside the netting when we raised it hastily to take a mouthful of lumpy and rapidly cooling instant cereal. I had read somewhere that there are 22 distinct tribes of mosquito in the Arctic. It's possible to have one or more of each breed on your hand simultaneously...and that says nothing of the black flies, slower off the mark in the north but no less deadly than their southern cousins. It's funny how things work out. My pal and I had decided this time to get serious about fishing. One previous trip to the Yukon, we'd purchased fishing licenses for the Yukon, B.C., and one for fishing in federal parks. Between us we'd taken one eight incher, a silver, and we'd done it with a lure sporting treble hooks--illegal, as it turns out. Now here we were, crabbing our way across the greasy bolder strewn bottom in our Deep Sea kayak shoes (more like slippers, really and not something you'd want to go to a dance in), dodging the bastards in mid-stream as they tried to bowl us over. We'd spotted a "real fisherman" a couple of days ago wading out of a stream and onto a gravel bar. At first I thought a mannequin from the fishing department at L.L. Bean had smashed its way to freedom through the front window and made a daring broad daylight escape. Chest waders, vest, designer hat with wide brim, Arnette sunglasses, a handmade Sumatra bamboo creel, hand-tied flies adorning the sheep's wool patch over his heart, a nine-foot rod that cost more than the guy's 4 x 4, lip balm, the whole enchilada. He confided that he'd had no luck so far, but was expecting a new hatch any time now and he had the nymph to do the job. I was surprised at his reference to his live-in. I held up my Mepps No. 3 for inspection. "This slays 'em, pal," I said. He lurched backwards two or three steps, as if I'd held up a spent condom, and almost fell into the stream. Then he focused on me and my buddy for the first time. "You guys know you can't use treble hooks here?" he mumbled, eyeing our spinning gear. "I haven't finished the course yet," I said, referring to the Alaska fishing regulations which comprise the only real bar exam for would-be Alaskan lawyers. "Are we east of the high-water mark on the downriver side of the North channel?" Tony asked. Mannequin ignored the question. "Caught anything?" he asked, looking for any sign of a creel. "Yes, as a matter of fact, we have," I said. "Some real dandies. We let 'em go." He looked skeptical. "Whatja get?" "Silvers, I think," I offered. "And a couple of reds. One had orangish spots. Some grays too. Big ones. Real scrappers." He sloshed into the stream, and headed off upwind. "Camping, are you?" he asked, wrinkling his nose. I caught a whiff of aftershave lotion. "Have a good one, eh?" I shouted cheerily after him. His reply was snatched away by the wind. My pal went off to follow a separate creek, bear bell jangling as he walked, and I settled for a gravel wash right in the main channel where the water undercut the far bank as it did a 140 degree turn. We were fishing for Grayling, the only one of the many Alaska species we could identify. The Grayling has a longish dorsal fin, something like a Re/Max banner, and from what I could determine, isn't particularly bright. Who needs an 85-pound Silver to prove one's masculinity? There's something much more "arctic" about a Grayling anyway. That's when I snagged the monster silver, and almost ruined my day. I sipped on the beer and mused at what had happened. I'd have to tell my buddies back home about the incident, of course, but had no idea what the mother was. Sockeye? Tuna? Pink? One thing is certain--it WAS a trout. As to size, I've seen bigger railroad ties, but never had one of THOSE threaten my manhood. The previous week we had witnessed the annual slaughter at Homer, in the southern Kenai Peninsula. The Kings had returned, and every able-bodied man, woman and child stood shoulder to shoulder in an attempt to block the salmon migration. They waded, boated, floated, slid and sloshed in a frenzy trying to land one of the 90 pounders. It was brutal--lures caught in scalps, broken limbs, capsizes, lost motors, holed hulls, all while the Kings patrolled nervously back and forth just out of range seeking a break in the human dam. Reports reaching the shore told of a gap being knocked in the wall of humanity--one story had a teenager knocked down by a monster King, and the tide of salmon poured through the fissure. Another version blamed the East Anglia Rod and Stein Club for failing to close the northern flank on time and many of the fish made it to safety--to do the things that salmon do in the privacy of their home streams. The wily Americans have stacked the deck heavily in favor of the fisherpeople--satellites track the progress of the fish through "informants" carrying radio transmitters planted in the schools. Even so, enough get through every year to spawn and guarantee (for the time being) survival of the species. I took another sip and chuckled to myself, recalling an article I had read in one of the tiny Alaskan newspapers. The story detailed a massive restocking program designed to keep the fish populations at catchable levels in many of the huge state