We've rationed food for a week.
We need fresh meat.
We're camped on a barren gravel bar
in the western Brooks Range,
three hundred miles down river
from where we launched our kayak.
I convinced Beth we would catch lots of fish.
But, the river was low from the start and
we caught one grayling the first week,
not much more than a mouthful apiece.
Yesterday, I spotted a flash of color in a small pool
as we drifted by the mouth of a stream.
"Red flash," I thought, "maybe a char's belly."
But, it's a spawned out dog salmon
with bright red sides, green back,
big toothy nose, and only half a tail.
When I laid it in the bottom of the kayak,
on a bed of grass,
Beth arched her eyebrow.
The flesh was white and mushy,
but we ate it for dinner.
And now, another day down river,
I'm scrambling from one pool to another,
searching the clear waters of the Kelly River
for an arctic char.
A flash of silver appears behind my spoon and then is gone.
"Silver," I think, "not red."
I cast again. The line shudders.
When I lift the rod tip,
a hefty char breaks the surface.
My tackle is light,
the fish is strong,
the pool is small.
When the char surges I let it run,
trying to keep it from the fast current,
or wrapping the line around a willow.
When it stops, I gently reel in.
But, then it runs again and I have to start over.
After 30 minutes my wrist is aching
but I have managed to work it
to a tiny gravel beach.
The char lays on its side,
its gills barely moving in and out.
I reach down and grab the line instead of the fish.
The char flops, comes out of its stupor,
and throws the hook.
"Noooo."
The char slithers through the shallow water.
I dive with both hands outstretched.
I can feel the char's smooth skin
on my fingertips,
but it slips through my hands and is gone.
I stand up and look down river.
Beth is laying on a foam pad on her back,
her pregnant belly a bump in the flat landscape of the river bar.
I can't face her yet.
Noatak Village is still two days downriver.
Doug Pope is an attorney and a writer in Anchorage.