These are the Chronicles of Famous Surf Writer Ben Marcus and his trip into the Wilds of the Alaskan Frontier.
Latest Update: October 31, 2000

20:20 BRITISH COLUMBIA TIME THE SWEDISH EMBASSY, STEELHEAD CAMP, KISPIOX, BRITISH COLUMBIA

Well, the good news is, I finally hooked a steelhead today. The bad news is, I didn't land the little bastard, and broke a $150 fly rod. Steelhead are smart, fast, devious and nearly human in their drive to escape being caught. That is why they are so hard to catch, and so much fun to catch. This first steelhead of mine was not to be. It fooled me into thinking I had him good. When I diverted my attention to getting my camera for a photo, it made for the bottom like the Kursk, wrapped itself around a rock and stayed there. While trying to pull it out, I broke a borrowed, $150 fly rod and lost the fish. That's the bad news.

One of my favorite Viking movies is called The 13th Warrior, a movie based on a Michael Crichton novel which is a semi-fictionalized account of an 11-th Century Persian prince who is kidnapped by a boatload of Vikings. They sail back to Scandinavia to battle a hoarde of beseechers who dress like bear and eat their dead. My situation is a little similar. I've been taken in a by a trio of Swedes who are here to do some serious steelhead fishing. Instead of a longboat they have a Rent a Car, and instead of horned helmets and chain mail and battle-axes, they have fishing caps and waders and tens of thousands of dollars worth of high-tech fishing gear. These are the same guys I bumped into on the Bulkily a few days ago. They aren't eating their dead, because the KISPIOX is all catch and release for wild steelhead. They're longhouse is a little log cabin made of earth and wood in the Steelhead Camp on the KISPIOX, and they spend their days fishing, and their evenings tying flies and talking about fishing. These guys are a little beserker themselves.

Outside the Swedish Embassy.

I hooked up with these guys yesterday, at the end of a long day of driving on both sides of the world-famous KISPIOX River, and getting the lay of the land.

Yesterday morning I left New Hazleton with a handful of REWARD posters, and printed digital photos of the spot where I had lost the wedding ring. I dropped them off at the Administrative Office in Glen Vowell, giving them to a glum Indian woman who reminded me of the glum Eskimo woman from Northern Exposure. She said she would pass them on to Marvin Sampson, and I'll check in there on the way out of here.

From Glen Vowell I drove about 20 miles into the KISPIOX Valley, and found myself along the world famous KISPIOX River. I was vaguely aware of this as a world-class steelhead river, and I seem to remember reading somewhere that the world record steelhead was pulled from this river. I think it was 34 pounds. That is a mutant fish.

The KISPIOX is idyllic. It looks like it was paid for by a super rich steelhead fishermen, and designed by a landscape architect with taste. I drove on both sides of the river, using a lot of logging roads and a Forest Service map to figure out where I was. A lot of the KISPIOX is impossible or illegal to get to, so I fished in the easy spots, like the Cottonwood Hole, an easy slide down the bank from the Steelhead Camp.

I poked around all day, flailing here and there, not catching any fish, but getting a good look at the river.

I spent the day driving around and checking it out, and it was all pretty epic. The KISPIOX is a mid-sized river that flows through a lot of classic BC farmland and forestland. There are a few houses here and there and a lot of logging roads, but there weren't many vehicles or people around, and not many fishermen. The weather was still pretty drizzly, but the mountains were visible and there was a lot of snow.

There were a few fishermen around, some of them fishing from sandbars, a lot of them drifting in small boats, which would be the best way to do this river as a lot of it is hard to get to.

I drove around all day, on both sides of the river, and saw that a lot of it was posted and there was no access. There also were a lot of For Sale and Real Estate signs. I also decided that if I do make any money and buy my frontier fishing lodge, this is the place. It just doesn't get any better than the KISPIOX Valley. It is a perfect steelhead river, which also happens to contain some whopping big wild steelhead.

While driving along I caught sight of a big patch of black on the side of the road, which didn't look right. I stopped, backed up and saw a black bear go charging into the bush. That thing was big. A little later I went driving down another muddy road, and I felt like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. In the movie Maverick kills his partner when he loses control in the jet wash of another jet, and learned a hard lesson, which he benefited from later when he pulls out of the same situation in combat. I felt the same way on these muddy roads. There were things I just didn't attempt because of what I had gone through in Glen Vowell. I wasn't going to get stuck again, although I did get pretty close. The mud here is impossible.

On one road I backed up after stopping in front of a giant mud-hole. I backed out, barely, and then walked back down the road to fish. I had Mr. Walther with me and this was the first time I really felt bear-spooked. This was a quiet road with dripping rain and there was no one around. I whistled as I walked and kept Mr. Walther loaded and locked. It wasn't hard to imagine a bear popping up in the middle of the road.

I fished this hole and that hole and just tried to get the river figured out. I fished one easy hole on the side of the road called the Cottonwood, and talked to a guy from Vancouver and another from Montana. I asked if Brent Taylor was around, and the Montana guy said he thought he was. I hadn't seen Brent since he left me at the New Town Pub a few nights ago.

By the end of the day I ended up at the KISPIOX Sportsman Lodge. I was a little frustrated about not catching a fish, and I asked about a drift trip. It would be $450 Canadian, and I was seriously considering it.

Leaving the Sportsman Lodge and driving back toward the town of KISPIOX, I saw Brent's truck on the side of the road. There was no sign of him and when I tried to get through the bush to find him, I didn't see anything but bush. So I just sat in the car with the heater on and waited for him to show up, and played with a black Labrador that liked to chase rocks.

Well past dark, Brent showed up. He'd been fishing all day, catching one fish in the morning and losing another in the evening. He was pretty jazzed with that. I told him I had sent some photos of him to his mother in Missouri, and even talked to her on the phone. She wanted Brent to call her and I passed that along.

Brent said the Swedish guys were staying at the Steelhead Camp and he would meet me there in about 20 minutes, after he visited a local friend.

I drove to the Steelhead Camp, which kind of reminded me of the bad surf camp I went to at Periscope Point in Sumbawa. Just as muddy, but not as tropical. I knocked on the door of the Swedish Embassy, and there were the three guys from the Bulkily, along with two other Swedes, Leif (of course) and a guy who didn't talk much.

Men indeed. Team Swede from left: Tomas the reel-maker, Big Swede Pete aka "Fish Killer," Leif of the great distance, and Orion, who speaks English so well.

I told them Brent was coming and they invited me in. I got a hamburger for dinner and some coffee and it was very nice after a long, cold wandering day, hanging out in a cabin that could have been 100 years ago, except for all the high-tech fishing gear.

Thomas was the guy who made his own reels, and he showed me some others. They are beauties, made of titanium or aluminum, lightweight and fast. All of these guys use two-fisted fly rods, which I think you would need if you hooked into a really big fish along here.

We talked about this and that and at some point I got up to get my camera and take a photo of the interior of the Swedish Embassy. I couldn't find it, and realized I had left my green bag with camera, binoculars and fishing vest by the side of the van where I had been talking with Brent. Oh, and my fly rod, too.

So I went charging out into the blackest, rainiest night you've ever seen, and scanned the side of the road. I remembered there had been a house on the other side of the road, so I looked for lights. I went all the way to KISPIOX before I realized I had gone too far, and then turned back. After about a half an hour, I found the spot and all my gear. I had stored everything in a Canadian Army bag I had bought in Dawson and it turned out to be fairly water-proof.

When I got back to the Swedish Embassy I admitted that I had been making too many mistakes lately and maybe it was time to end this trip and get back home. The Swedes laughed it off, and we sat around drinking beer and talking about this and that. At some point I went to the van to get a copy of my San Francisco article in The Surfer's Journal and some swell.com pins. I also grabbed a handful of steelhead and fly-fishing magazines I had bought before leaving California.

On the cover on of one the magazines was a photo of a guy holding up a nice trout somewhere in Patagonia. Turns out that guy was none other than Mr. Steelhead Fiend himself, Brent Taylor (who still hadn't shown up.)

All serious fly fishermen are serious gear heads, but Team Sweden even pushed that a little far. The airlines had found their lost gear, and it was all over the cabin. These guys do a lot of fishing for Atlantic salmon back in Sweden, so they're all two-fisted. They have big, 14-foot long graphite rods and big reels, some of them custom-machined by Thomas.

I kept running back and forth to my car to show these guys things and at some point I came in with my fly-fishing rig. They smiled quietly to themselves and made me understand that my fly rod was maybe a little outdated. I realized that I had taken that thing in my board bag to Australia and New Zealand way back when, almost 20 years ago.

Thomas offered to let me use one of his graphite rods, and he helped me rig it. I put a faster-sinking tip on the end of the floating line, and he put on some of their heavy-duty German leader material. I'd been using 10-pound. I think these guys were using 30-pound. Thomas is a black-belt knot-tier, by the way. Clinch-knots? No problem.

During one of my trips out to the van I heard something big moving through the bush on the other side of the camp. It's just spooky to be moving around at night here. Camping out in the bush would be about as fun as the Blair Witch Project, I imagine.

Brent Taylor showed up out of the gloom at one point. He is friends with Leif, one of the other Swedes in the room, who speaks English with an Australian accent. Leif had spent three years in Australia touring around, and we shared similar tales about all the spider and snake paranoia you have to go through out in the bush. It really isn't fun after a while.

Leif also happens to be a six-time World Champion fly caster, capable of throwing a fly line 76 meters, or almost 240 feet. He uses a special line that can't really be used for fishing, but it's still something I would like to see some day. That's a hell of a long cast.

We drank beers and ate hamburgers and looked through surfing and fly-fishing magazines, although the fishing magazines were much more popular. Brent was pretty impressed by the custom-made fly reels, and wanted to order a few. Apparently Thomas is having them manufactured in Korea. I'd like to have one, too. They are works of art.

Brent took off, and the Swedes offered to let me stay in their cabin with them. Pete the Big Swede helped me carry my mattress from the van to the cabin and I also set up that electric heater I bought in Homer, as the fire would go out sometime during the night.

"Fish Killer."

And with that, I fell asleep in a very good mood, dreaming of catching my first steelhead the next day, rigged up all Ship Shape and Bristol Fashion by Team Sweden.

I once again experienced the phenomenon of that damn mattress. When it's on the floor, it is very comfortable. In the van, it sucks. I slept great last night, warm and cozy on the floor of the Swedish Embassy. No Internet connection, but I got through the night okay.

HALLOWEEN EVE DAY

We were up and at 'em by eight o'clock this morning. Our first stop was the Rodeo Hole, a long stretch of shallow water near the KISPIOX Valley Rodeo Grounds. The borrowed rod was much stiffer than my relic and it cast much better. I was properly rigged, except that I didn't have any wading boots. I was wearing neoprene waders that were like PJ's with stocking feet. I couldn't get the waders to fit into my hiking boots, rubber boots or Topsiders, so I went slopping and flopping around in the stocking feet with almost no traction. It looked and felt stupid, but what could I do?

We fished the Rodeo Hole with no action, then moved on to the Potato Patch. This is a long stretch of river with easy access from the bank. It looked like there would be fish in there, but no one got a bite. Brent Taylor showed up with Jackson. He was wearing a blonde girl's wig in honor of Halloween. I should have taken a photo to send to his mom so she could worry about him.

We spent an hour or so at the Rodeo Hole and another hour or so at the Potato Patch before moving onto a third spot, which didn't have a name. It was just bank fishing along some trees, and tricky casting. Thomas went upstream while Peter and Orion went downstream, and this is where I almost caught my fish.

Fishing for steelhead can get a little tedious, because you do a lot of casting and pulling, casting and pulling, knowing full well that if you get one bite or one fish a day, you are beating the odds. Brent and the Swedes had stories of three-fish days and even seven-fish days, but for the most part, a fish a day is a good average.

So there I was, casting and pulling, casting and pulling, focused for the most part, but occasionally spacing out and thinking about this and that.

I was spacing out a little when I got a solid strike. I saw the fish roll on the top and it was a solid, decent steelhead. Not a KISPIOX monster, but a good little fighter. I started whooping and yelling and that caught the attention of Orion who began moving up the bank. I fought the fish for a couple of minutes, got cocky and screwed up. I started moving up the river to grab my camera, and the steelhead sensed an opportunity. It deep-sixed for the bottom like the Kursk and took a couple of wraps around a rock. Before I knew it, I was snagged good. What had been an exciting fight with a solid fish and the end of many years of frustration was now just a snag. I didn't know if the fish was still on, or what, but I was pissed.

Orion came along and asked what was up. He saw I was snagged and warned me to be careful with the rod, which I had borrowed from Thomas, a light, high-tech graphite. Orion told me to give up on the fish and yank the line to break it. I did, but I did it wrong. The fly rod snapped, and I was out one fish and one fly rod. I was just trying out the fly rod, thinking about buying it. I have now bought it. Graphite is not repairable. Crap.

I was pissed, as you can understand. First fish, and I learned a lesson. Take these buggers seriously. They aren't caught until they're gasping in your hands.

Shoot. I got one other bite all day, but I did better than two/thirds of the Swedish Fly-Fishing Team. Big Swede (Peter) caught a small steelhead in the morning and a Dolly Varden in the evening, but Orion and Thomas got nothing.

That's how steelhead fishing goes. Most of the time, you fish all day long, dawn until dusk, hoping to get one bite, and maybe a fish. It's not just me, it's everyone.

I was so pissedabout losing the fish that I practically ran back to the van to get my relic and rig it up. That incident could have killed my enthusiasm or ignited it. It did the latter. Now I really wanted to catch one of those clever bastards.

Orion and Peter and Thomas all showed up on the bank above me, smiling, but in an understanding way. Orion had once snapped three fly rods in a day and they all had lost many, many fish. Steelhead fishing is serious business. It takes time and patience and it is not easy.

I followed those guys to the next hole but lost them at the bridge just before Steelhead Camp. They had gone on the east side of the river and I went west. I finally caught up with them about 45 minutes later when I saw their car on the side of the road. I went plunging down an embankment that was thick with bush. I couldn't find a trail anywhere, and I don't think there was one.

The Bridge.

This place was pretty bad, and those guys all left about as soon as I got there. The trip back up the embankment was hell. Straight up through thick brush, and all you could do was crash through it and claw your way up. Wearing neoprene waders without boots and having a fly rod in your hands only made it harder.

That little climb really sucked. I was throwing my fly rod up ahead of me and then climbing up after it. By the time I got to the road, Team Sweden were long gone, and my heart was pounding.

I didn't try to follow them this time. I went back to the Rodeo Hole with my relic rig, and got a solid double bit on my first cast, but no fish. I walked the rest of the hole with no action and then gave up. At the KISPIOX Sportsman's Lodge I called swell.com to see if my retainer had been deposited, because I was afraid I wouldn't have enough money to pay for the snapped rod.

Turns out the money had been deposited and so I asked The Lodge if they were serving dinner that night. They were.

I wanted to take Team Sweden and Brent Taylor to dinner to return all the Local Knowledge. I drove back to Steelhead Camp. They weren't around, so I fished the Cottonwood Hole. There was a truck parked there with license plates that said KISPIOX, which I took as a good sign. I threw in a few casts until I saw the Team Sweden Rent a Car go by.

I took Pete, Orion and Thomas to dinner at the Sportsman's Lodge. "We've got anything you want, as long as you want spaghetti," they said. And that, along with beer and pork and vegetable soup, was just the go. There was a very pretty girl working as a waitress at the place and there were even some trick or treaters coming by. One of them was dressed as a skunk, but I don't think he was teasing me. We had a big meal and after I used the Lodge computer to show Team Swede their photos on the sacklunch site, and also the work I had done on swell.com.

Leaving the Lodge I called a local rod-maker who charges US$175 for a custom one-handed rod, and US$300 for a two-fisted. I'm thinking about it.

Now it's 22:54 on Halloween Night. All three Swedes are sawing logs in their sleep, and I'm tap tap tapping away. We watched the Norway SURFER Magazine TV show on Dan's VCR tonight, and also my Yankee In Kamchatka video. Pete the Big Swede helped me carry my mattress into the cabin and I am ready to hit the hay.