PUBLISHER’S LETTER
Pat Hoglund with a Sitkoh River steelhead.
What the
Hell Am I
Doing Here?
W
hat the hell am I doing here? I
remember asking myself that very
question when I was steelhead
fishing on the Sitkoh River in Southeast Alas-
ka. The floatplane just landed and a brown
bear about the size of a refrigerator darted
into the timber. It was a little unnerving and
I remember thinking I don’t want to run into
him while I’m fishing.
The Sitkoh is located on Chicagof Island
and is considered one of Southeast Alaska’s
better steelhead rivers. It’s short, not very
wide and busy with downed timber. It flows
through dense forest and unless you know
what you’re looking for you’d be hard-
pressed to see it from the air. It gets a decent
run of spring steelhead, which explains why
I was in the middle of nowhere casting a
marabou jig to steelhead I couldn’t see.
Having fished the upper two miles of the
river that morning, I decided to explore new
water. Walking down a well-used trail there
was a dead, half-eaten deer carcass. It was
pulled off to the side and it had been pretty
well picked over. Nevertheless, it served as
a reminder that I was amongst bears. These
aren’t Katmai National Park bears either;
these are bears that defend their territory and
th ink nothing of taking a swipe at you. The
week before, at the very spot I stood, I was
told a group of fishermen had to fire warning
shots to keep a mother and cubs at bay.
Chicagof Island has the highest popula-
tion of brown bears per square mile than any
other place in the world, a fact I was well
aware of at the time. It’s one of those nuggets
of information that continues to pop into
your brain when you’re standing quietly in a
river waiting for a strike.
I found a good piece of water to fish and
I was able to take stock of my situation. I
thought of the bear darting into the woods,
the deer carcass, and the sow and her cubs
that were known to this area. I couldn’t help
but think I had no way to protect myself,
unless you think it’s possible to fend off a 750
pound bear with a 9 ½ foot graphite rod. I
didn’t like my odds.
A friend of mine who stayed upriver was
carrying a high-powered rifle and I decided
to see if he was catching any fish. Retrac-
ing my steps, the half-eaten carcass again
prompted the question: What the hell was
I doing here? Given the circumstances it
seemed like a perfectly logical question.
It is the type of question that we ask our-
selves when we’re alone in bear country. Or
in some other unfamiliar situation. It’s a ques-
tion that can only be answered by you, but
before you have the answer you have to put
yourself in a similar situation. I rarely find
myself asking that question when I’m fishing
close to home. Nine out of 10 times I know
what the outcome will be. I will come home
to my family, eat a home-cooked meal and
sleep in a comfortable bed. Out in the bush
there are so many different circumstances
that the answer is never cut and dry.
I found my friend who had a .40 caliber
rifle slung over his shoulder. He had just
landed a nice steelhead and using his rod he
pointed downriver to a good piece of water.
I unhooked my jig, cast slightly upriver and
watched a steelhead race out of its holding
water to strike at it. It grabbed the jig and
the two of us spent the next five minutes
playing a game of tug of war. At one time it
wrapped itself around a log, but somehow I
managed to get it free. A couple minutes later
I was holding it in my hands. My heart raced
and my hands shook. The steelhead’s cheeks
were burgundy red and its olive green back
was turning a darker shade. I unhooked the
jig and released the fish back into the river.
Its tail splashed water in my face and like an
alarm clock it brought me back to the mo-
ment. The cold Alaska water reminded why I
was there. As that steelhead swam away, my
question was answered.
traveling angler 2011
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