These are the Chronicles of Famous Surf Writer Ben Marcus and his trip into the Wilds of the Alaskan Frontier.
Latest Update: October 26, 2000

1:14 AM BRITISH COLUMBIA TIME ROOM 508 BULKLEY VALLEY MOTEL, NEW HAZLETON, BRITISH COLUMBIA

Did I say something about timing recently? I believe I did. Well, today I had timing, or maybe it was just God who decided to reward all my Good Deeds by putting Mr. Montana Steelhead Fiend in my path, and solved the two dilemmas I faced as I was leaving the Cassiar: catching a fish, and figuring out how to drive south.

This guy is into fish.

Mr. Steelhead, also known as Brett Taylor, solved both of those dilemmas. He's a guy I met along the highway leading out of Stewart, who happens to be a professional fishing guide from Montana. He took me fishing on the M _ _ _ _ _ _ _ River today, where I came very, very close to catching one of the buggers. And he also showed me a way out of British Columbia that will put me on some of the best steelhead rivers in the world, at the prime time of the year, and then on to Montana. That is going to happen tomorrow. I am going to fish the Griffin water of the Bulkley and Brett has all but guaranteed that I am going to get a fish. And he also convinced me to head home by way of Banff and then Montana.

Who is this guy? He was a little gift from God, I think. I met him by chance, and almost got his dog run over by a logging truck. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I drove around Stewart this morning and bought some good bread and coffee at a cool little bakery in the middle of town. Stewart kind of reminds me of Ben Lomond, with glaciers. Go out of Stewart and you cross into Hyder, Alaska "The Friendliest Little Ghost Town in Alaska." There must have been some kind of trade agreement a long time ago that left this little chunk to the United States, as it is a deep-water port that goes well inland into an area rich with minerals. Gold and ore is what Stewart/Hyder are all about. It's weird to see so much civilization along the Cassiar where you don't expect it, and it's weird to see the ocean where you don't expect it. But the ocean is why Stewart and Hyder exist. That's Alaska. That's British Columbia. Land of the unexpected.

Stewart/Hyder

It was a nice day today: blue skies, sunny. I drove out to Hyder and out onto a little island. There was a good-sized tanker loading ore to be refined in Japan. I stopped on the pier to hide Mr. Walther yet again, as I would be crossing through Canadian customs going back to Stewart. I got through without too much hassle. Ms. Customs Lady asked about tobacco and alcohol, and she didn't even want to look at the shotgun.

A mini glacier into a lake.

On the way out of Stewart and back to the Cassiar, I was looking for those mini-glaciers I had seen on the way in. While driving out I passed a guy stopped on the side of the road, looking at a stretch of water and taking a photo, which is what I had been doing for the past several weeks. I saw him again farther on, across from that glacier emptying into a lake. He was setting up his camera on the ground to take a photo, so I stopped to do my Good Deed for the day and maybe take the photo for him.

As I stopped, his dog ran across the highway to check me out, and directly into the path of a fully-loaded logging truck. In my rear-view mirror I watched my worst nightmare coming true, a poor dog getting smashed by a logging truck. The truck did what it could to stop, and I saw a profound look of fear in the dog's eyes as it froze and then ran. Somehow the truck missed it. That was pretty crazy. Good thing it wasn't icy.

I apologized to the guy and the dog as the truck driver stopped and came out. I thought the truck driver was pissed, because we could have got him killed. But he was just worried about the dog.

After apologizing for causing the whole mess, I started talking with the guy, who had Montana plates. He was the fishing version of a surfer dude and he was basically doing what I was doing-flat-hatting around in British Columbia, looking for fishable water. He talked about rivers and fish the way surfers talk about beaches and waves. He was pretty amped about the whole deal, and had even drawn a figure of a big fish on the back of his truck in the dust, with his finger.

He had a small truck with a camper, which he said was comfortable. We talked about this and that, and got to talking about steelhead. I gave him my sob story about getting skunked in Alaska, and I wondered if there were any fish in the Cassiar at this time of year. He looked at me kind of funny, and showed me some photos of the fish he had caught on the tributaries of the Bulkley river. He had a 43-inch steelhead in his hands. Unbelievabvle. He then launched into a detailed description of every river and creek for a hundred miles around. He was heading for the M _ _ _ _ _ River, and invited me along.

His name was Brett and he drove as fast as the loggers. I followed him as best I could, out to the Cassiar Highway and then south a few miles. He lead me well off the highway and over a muddy road down a muddy path to a secret spot, which I promised I wouldn't name. On the way he pointed out a grouse jumping through the trees, and we also saw some weird, tree-climbing animal, possibly a marten. It was a cute little thing, and I got a few photos of it.

Swan Lagoon

The trip through the bush lead to heaven, a long stretch of fast water emptying a lake, with flat water beyond and a big lagoon with swans gliding around. It was ridiculous, and there were fish flopping around and jumping everywhere. It was almost like a dream. There were two other fishermen in kind of a tight area, but they gave us the go-ahead to fish around them. I had Mr. Purple tied on and ready to go, so I cast where I saw a red back flopping around. On the third cast, I hooked a decent-sized sockeye. It felt good to finally get a bite, any bite, after all the flailing I had done in Alaska. The sockeye came to the beach after an okay fight, but it swam off with my fly in its mouth before I could get to it. It wasn't a keeper or anything, it was already black. But it felt good to have some vibration an tension at the end of my line.

A little furry critter on the move.

The other two fishermen had a rifle with a big scope on it, and Jackson kept barking into the bush, which made me nervous. Maybe he was barking at a grouse, maybe he was barking at Mr. Brown or Mr. Black. He kept me looking over my shoulder to see if anything was coming. I had Mr. Walther with me, and felt less stupid when I saw that bear rifle.

And then I fished for about two hours, working about 50 yards of water, with fish flopping and jumping everywhere. I cast and cast, lost a few flies, lost my leader and had to figure out how to tie a clinch note, to attach a new piece of 10-pound monofilament to the ned of my fly line.

Those other two fishermen took off after a while, leaving the whole stretch to me. Brett was further down on the next corner.

It was obvious that Brett was a pretty serious fly-fisherman. He had a big, two-handed fly rig he was trying to get wired. He was wrestling with the thing with both hands, throwing out long streams of yellow line, and sometimes looking graceful doing it.

At some point I heard a rebel yell from downstream and that began the pas de deux that steelhead fishermen live for. Brett had hooked into a solid fish, and it was erupting out of the water, jumping and twisting and trying to spit the hook so it could go upstream, do its business and get back to the coast.

It was a beautiful fight, on a beautiful stretch of river with a beautiful backdrop. I wish I had a film or video of it. Brett fought the fish for about 10 minutes, then swam the fish over to me so I could take a photo of it. It was a beautiful, 31 inch hen steelhead. He let it go after I took some photos.

The obscure object of desire.

I kept fishing, hoping for something similar. I got a couple of nibbles, then hooked a little rainbow trout, which I let go. As Bret was walking over as the sun was going down, I thought I had a snag but it turned out I had snagged some weird little fish in the back. Brett told me it was a whitefish. I let it go.

So, no steelhead, but Brett lead me out of the Cassiar to a little town called New Hazleton, which is near a bunch of rivers that feed into the Skeena River, which goes down to the coast at Prince Rupert. He drew me a map of the Bulkley River and a stretch of water he calls, "The Griffin Water." He has almost guaranteed me a fish, and gave me advice on how to drift it.

We hung out in the New Town Pub last night, watching CNN and Sports, and talking. Turns out Brett is a professional fishing guide who works Montana and Idaho in the summer, and Chile in the winter. He fishes a lot this guy, and knows what he is doing. He got me all fired up about this morning, and now it is this morning, and I'm gonna get out of here and go fishing.

I'm in a $39 (Canadian) hotel room in New Hazleton so I think I'm gonna stick around for a few days. I need a pair of chest waders and some more bugs, and now I'm gonna go catch me a steelhead.

Wish me luck.