By Andrew Cremata

Disappearing clouds revealed a hot yellow, summer solstice sun. Swarms of levitating mayflies manifested in shafts of falling light as though conjured by enchantment. Over the lake, dozens of terns indulged in the feast, whirling and diving over a shallow shoal in a cacophony of high-pitched chirps and burry caterwauls. 

Brittney and I slipped into the canoe as though it were a well-worn shoe and quickly made our way to the tabletop feast. The terns were indifferent to our approach as we positioned the boat for a controlled drift over the grassy flats. 

In every direction, fish snatched mayflies from the surface with determined attacks, leaving nothing more than whirlpools in their wake. I was unsure whether the frenzied feeders were whitefish or slough sharks until glimpsing the golden glittering scales that adorn whitefish flanks.

After tying bead-head flies to five feet of leader topped with torpedo bobbers, Brittney and I cast into the melee. Only a few seconds passed before a fish swirled around the bobber, fins out of the water as it inhaled the fly. Brittney hooked the fish, but it quickly wriggled its way free. 

Another whitefish surged from the depths to snatch my fly as it fell, coming entirely out of the water but missing its mark. Then it came back around and swallowed its prey on the second attempt. Pulling hard enough to swing the canoe around, the fish made a valiant attempt at escape before falling victim to the bottom of our net.  

Meanwhile, the terns twisted and rolled on chaotic trajectories, sometimes diving close to our bobbers for a split-second inspection. Every so often, the entire flock suddenly surged high into the air, communicating in some ancient language only known to their kind. After turning to fly in the same direction as though lining up in an aerial formation, the terns dove in unison and scattered on random paths just above the lake’s surface. 

The bites remained constant as we floated along the narrow line between water and air. As sunlight slowly faded, so did the mayflies. Bites became less frequent until they stopped altogether. The terns peeled away one by one, gathering together on a nearby island where they roosted on tree limbs. Only a few remained, feeding above the shoal as we paddled back to camp.

Most of the fish we hooked got away, typical for whitefish, but we landed four and one surprise pike that somehow failed to sever my leader with its razor-sharp teeth. The overall insanity of the experience made it one of the most thrilling fishing outings I’ve ever had.

While a first for me, the event is an annual survival ritual for mayflies, whitefish, and terns. My involvement went mostly unnoticed, except for four unlucky fish who went searching for a meal only to become one. 

In the anarchy of survival, nature shows no preference. 

Early last spring, while walking along the glacially carved rocks lining Skagway’s fjord I encountered a shallow saltwater pool filled with pink shrimp. The ebbing tide left them stranded with no means of escape. Only the rising tide could save the small crustaceans, but their oxygen would run out well before gravity could play the role of savior. 

It seemed likely the shrimp were gathered at the ocean’s surface near shore to spawn, a few dozen of which were blissfully unaware of their impending ironic predicament. Perched on a nearby boulder, I watched a passing crow spot the briny pool of shrimp before descending for a closer look. 

After landing on the rocky point, the crow ambled over the pool’s edge and cocked its head from side to side, peering at the hapless shrimp. To my surprise, instead of immediately feasting, the crow cocked its head back and cried out into the air above. Then it lowered its head and vocalized a sound reminiscent of a cat’s meow. 

A handful of crows in a nearby tree called back in response and quickly joined their companion before commencing to feed. 

All intelligent animals understand that survival hinges on cooperation. Here is the mad beauty and symmetry hidden within creation’s chaos.

When I was a child, I eagerly consumed pictures and stories about Alaska. I vividly remember photos of wide-eyed harbor seals surrounded by ice and giant brown bears attempting to catch jumping salmon as they surged upstream to spawn. My fishing books included stories about fishermen catching halibut weighing hundreds of pounds while orcas breached and eagles flew high overhead. 

As a child, I failed to realize that all are stories and images of ancient survival cycles. Most people share this ignorance, which is likely why boatloads of tourists travel to Alaska to see something authentically beautiful and mistake true inspiration for commodified simulation.

However, some are transformed, having momentarily noticed the intricate fabrics woven from random threads. 

Sometimes the same thing happens to me while slowly floating along a narrow shoal in my canoe waiting for fish to bite. It feels like finding something you never knew existed, even though you’ve been searching for it your entire life. 

Later that evening, Brittney and I sat next to the campfire and watched an angry seagull harass a perched bald eagle who looked like he wanted nothing more than a nap. The comedy of their encounter made us laugh, even though I knew that the seagull was likely protecting its young in some nearby nest.

Nobody said survival is easy, but the opportunity is unquestionably magnificent. 

 

Andrew Cremata’s award-winning column runs monthly each summer in The Skagway News.  His book, “Fish This!” is popular in fish circles and the subject of constant bar conversation.