On a hunting opener, a diversion to fish that may cause an about-face

“Maybe I’m holding my mouth wrong,” I thought, as the grayling and my fly parted company. In my youth, on a rare fishing trip to Minnesota, I sat on the middle bench seat in the old 16-foot Lund my dad’s friend had. The ancient 25-horsepower Evinrude motor grumbled on the stern, pushing the little boat a couple of miles per hour as we trolled for northern pike.

My dad and his friend were reeling in pike about as quick as they could land one and get their line back in the water while I caught nothing. Same lure, same setup, and the only thing I had was bleeding fingers and thumbs from razor-sharp pike teeth lacerating me as I learned the art of disgorging hooks without needle-nose pliers.

“You’re holding your mouth wrong,” my dad’s buddy said, when I mentioned my lack of fish. “Look at me,” he said, “now make some faces.”

When you are 9 years old and desperate to catch a fish, you become easy entertainment for folks with a sense of humor. The look he told me to hold must have been ridiculous, and I didn’t care, if it helped catch a fish.

In retrospect, the adults knew sooner or later, the odds would even out, and my red and white Daredevle lure would get bit. But how long would I hold my mouth right? Long enough to get the strike for which I waited, and until the pike flipped and flopped on the boat’s bottom.

Funny how things like that stick with folks, I thought as I cast with a strange look on my face. It didn’t work.

The phrase “cast and blast,” which means hunting and fishing on the same outing, has never held much favor to me. Perhaps that’s why my luck goes sour every time I couple fishing with hunting.

In a world where one feels driven by the spirit of the natural world, it seems how you feel about things beats what you think about them. It seems to apply to many aspects of life.

Christine thinks I jinx our efforts with my feelings. We’ve often gotten good information for hunting or fishing spots that promise to be a “gimme” or a sure thing. While these tips always seem to prove out for others, they don’t work for us. Maybe she is right. Maybe feeling like it shouldn’t be that easy does put a hex on our efforts.

Instead of taking the historical evidence that it doesn’t work to divide my attention between hunting and fishing, for the second upland bird season opener in a row, I added fishing to the agenda.

This year it seemed it might be different. We headed north for the opener, to some country Christine, the dogs and I have grown to love. Last year the same area held very few ptarmigan, so there would be no expectation that would change.

Since we knew the hunting would be enjoyable in terms of experience, and the shooting nonexistent in terms of taking home birds, I figured maybe I could get away with combining some fishing on the trip.

Toad-strangling rain greeted us as we entered the Alaska Range via the Paxson end of the Denali Highway. The chances of Hugo and Rigby locating birds the day before the opener went from dismal to dang-near impossible.

But, the boys are always up for hunting, and Rigby thinks he is basically a fish and happiest when he is soaking wet, to distraction. He found a small pool of water, maybe 10 feet across and surrounded by willow brush, and dove right in. Being in the alpine, he evidently knew there were no sticks to throw so he ripped out one of the small willows and brought it over, insisting one of us throw it into the pool.

Rigby is a good retriever, but the idea of working hard to find a live bird hasn’t caught on with him yet. We keep thinking Hugo will inspire him with his relentless prey drive. Rigby mostly watches Hugo and his facial expressions say he thinks Hugo is a dumb runt.

We didn’t find any birds that night, but morning brought a halt to the rain and sunlight showed through openings in the sky.

Hugo put out a magnificent effort, and Rigby cheered him on. The only ptarmigan we saw were a hen with four chicks as we came down a mountain and neared the road. Bidding them a good day, we headed to the cabin to regroup for a fishing adventure.

With what seemed like a bit of a smirk, Christine watched and decided she wouldn’t cast any aspirations to the fish, but she would take some photos.

It didn’t hit me until tying the No. 12 Cooper John — despite the name, no relation to a toilet — a bead head nymphing fly with copper wire wound around the hook shank. At this same spot, precisely one year ago, I had tied on the same fly and with the first cast, broke the tip of my fly rod.

The stretch of river that lay before me had provided many days of great fishing over the years. A nice stream with a decent current, not too wide and just about perfect for my minimal fly-casting skills. Grayling and the occasional lake trout could hold an angler’s attention for many peaceful hours.

The third drift through a ripple produced a nice strike that I missed. A couple more drifts through the riffle, and I had a fish on — for about four seconds. Just long enough to think this time would be different.

The next couple of hours produced more hook-ups, with no fish coming to hand, or to the table. Just, I suppose, as my feelings had driven it.

This year’s opener was bittersweet for Christine and me. It would have marked Winchester’s 13th opener in a row if he were able to join us in the field. He is simply no longer capable of doing what he has done for so many years, without significant pain.

And therein perhaps lies the real issue. There was no chance that the spirit in all of us could rise to the top in his absence. That’s another story for another time. For this one our feelings held sway over plans, just as the way you hold your mouth can make all the difference.