Book Excerpt: A ‘Pile Of Fish’ And A Guide To Forget

The following appears in the December issue of Alaska Sporting Journal:

Essayist and avid angler Stephen Sautner’s fourth book is essentially a love story for an activity he can’t get enough of: fishing.
Raised in New Jersey by parents who didn’t exactly hand down an infatuation for rods, reels and fish to their next generation, Sautner learned how to love this sport on his own. Now he longs for the call of “fish on” all over the map, including Alaska, which he features prominently in his latest published work, Every Cast. It’s an ode to many of his favorite adventures, from his native states along the Eastern Seaboard – Long Island and the Catskill Mountains of New York, the Jersey Shore, brook trout-filled New Hampshire streams – to a pair of memorable trips to the Last Frontier.

“I think Every Cast is less about specific fish and destinations, but more about the universal passion that drives anglers or any outdoorsperson,” Sautner says. “The lures and flies may be different, and the species dissimilar, but the meaning behind why we put on our waders and make our casts is pretty universal.”

Sautner also wrote Fish On, Fish Off and A Cast in the Woods, and he edited Upriver and Downstream, a collection of outdoor columns from The New York Times.

In this excerpt from his new book, Sautner recalls an Alaskan trip with his wife, Mimi, and the guide who rankled the author’s feathers more than once as they chased trout and salmon. The following is excerpted from Every Cast: Chronicles of a Deeply Hooked Angler, by Stephen Sautner and published by Lyons Press.

BY STEPHEN SAUTNER

Wow, did Big Joe love to fish! And was he good at it! Really good! He would beat you to the cast like a gunslinger outdrawing you with his six-shooter. While you were midway through a double haul, Big Joe would fire out a lure with his spinning rod that would land inches from a rolling silver salmon. A couple of turns and he would rear back with a mighty hook set. Then he’d turn to you and ask if you wanted to reel it in.

Here’s the problem: Big Joe was a fishing guide. Another problem: I had just hired him for five days of fishing in Alaska.

Some anglers are “guide guys”; they wouldn’t dream of traveling anywhere exotic without booking a pro to take them around. I get that; it’s smart, but it’s not me. I prefer to work the problem on my own. That’s how I caught my first bonefish, tarpon and Atlantic salmon. Yes, there were steep learning curves involved and sometimes lots of frustration. But in the end, I hooked, fought and landed those fish myself, by God.

WHEN I STARTED RESEARCHING DIY fishing for my first trip to Alaska, it sounded different. Much of what I read warned about Alaska’s limited road system and inevitable combat fishing. Images of rivers and streams overrun with anglers resembled opening day of trout season in New Jersey, except with snow-capped mountains in the background. If you decided to attempt a more adventurous wilderness experience and hike into the bush on your own, one bad decision and a grizzly bear would swat your ass into beef medallions. It seemed foolhardy not to hire a guide.

On the recommendation of a friend of a friend, my wife Mimi and I wound up choosing a fishing package on a big Alaskan river that boasted five species of salmon, plus enormous rainbows, char and grayling. It sounded perfect; our guide, Big Joe, would pick us up each day after breakfast in his boat, then whisk us away to unlimited boat and wade fishing in America’s last frontier. Before I booked the trip, I even had the all-important client-guide conversation where I explained that I wanted to catch my first-ever silver salmon on my fly rod. “No problem,” he told me over the phone.

We met Big Joe at the dock, and he lived up to his name, standing a good 6-feet-5 and weighing north of 250 pounds. Camo neoprene waders, military mustache and a well-worn Cabela’s baseball hat completed his burly Alaskan look.

He fired up the boat, and we took our seats. I noticed an arsenal of tackle already on board – several spinning rods and a fly rod or two. We had brought our own gear, so I assumed they must be backups just in case I splintered a rod on a big salmon.

Anticipation ran high as we motored downriver through blue-green waters. In the distance, snowy peaks from some faraway mountain range hung low on the horizon.

“We’re going to find a pile of fish,” Big Joe said over the outboard. Then he added for emphasis: “A pile of fish.”

The boat slowed, and we spotted a few swirls from salmon that had just entered from saltwater. The boat, a 16- foot aluminum deep-V, seemed tight for two fly anglers plus a guide, so Mimi opted to spinfish, casting a bright marabou jig from amidships. I took the bow and had just started stripping off fly line from my reel when I heard the whizz of another cast from the back of the boat. I turned around and saw Big Joe fishing.

Admittedly, I wasn’t all that versed in guide etiquette, but I did know one cardinal rule: a guide should never fish unless specifically invited by their clients. And even then, only for brief demonstration purposes, such as showing proper drift speed or line mending, or something else technical. This is for obvious reasons – namely, so the clients, not the guide, catch the fish. It should not bear repeating, but I will do so anyway – the guide is being paid to put clients on the fish, not catch the fish themselves.

Seconds later, this all became moot. “I got one!” Joe yelled. Yep, the very first salmon of our Alaskan adventure went to Big Joe. A few casts later, so did the second.

“Cast over there,” Joe excitedly said, clearly in the zone. “There’s a pile of fish.” A silver rolled 30 feet off the boat. I picked up my line to make a cast, but before I could shoot the fly, Joe’s lure got there first. He hooked another salmon. And that’s when he turned to me and said: “You want to reel this one in?”
So utterly gobsmacked was I, and facing down the fact that I would spend the next five days in a boat with him, and not sure I could answer my brawny, mustachioed fishing guide without screaming, “Are you f*cking kidding me???” I just swallowed and said, “No.”

OK; some of you at this point may be saying, “What the hell is the matter with you – you should have said something. You’re paying him!” And you are right; looking back, there were probably lots of ways I could have approached Big Joe and told him – in the nicest of ways – to cut the sh*t. But I didn’t, and I have to live with that. Maybe it’s because I’m too much of a gentleman. Did I mention that Joe was a big and excitable fella?

LET’S GO BACK TO the scene continuing to unfold on the boat. After Joe’s third salmon, I had somehow twisted my fly line into a truly awful knot that forced me to pop off my spool and snake line in and out of the reel frame to untangle it. A long time passed without me making

a single cast. By now, the fishing slowed. Big Joe, perhaps bored from temporarily not catching fish, decided then – and only then – to ask if I needed help.

This time my answer was a louder and more emphatic “no.” Mimi looked at me, not fully understanding the nuclear war going on in my head. The rest of the day is admittedly a little fuzzy. I know we caught salmon – mostly pinks, which far outnumbered the silvers.

Back at our hotel, I sucked down Alaskan Ambers and hated on Big Joe.

The next day, Joe motored us up a slow tributary. We got out of the boat and hiked a few hundred yards through knee-deep water to a sluggish pool full of ambivalent silvers that wouldn’t hit. I noticed that Big Joe didn’t bring a rod – a tip-off that the fishing might not be so good here. After an hour of nothing, with the feeling that Joe might keep us here a while to kill some time, I asked him if he wouldn’t mind going back to the boat

to bring us our bug spray. The blackflies were pretty bad, I told him. He made it clear he did mind, stomping through the river like an angry giant. He came back with the bug spray. I thanked him and put it in my pocket. Maybe I would put it on later, I told him. I was playing passive- aggressive chess. Your move, Big Joe.

It took my wife, all 5 feet, 3 inches of her, to finally stand up to Big Joe. On day three, Joe motored us upriver and beached the boat above a long series of riffles and runs. He grabbed his own fly rod and, gesturing at the river, said, “Pile of fish out here.” Then he disappeared around the bend.

We fished for a while, catching a few more pinks and some char. I briefly hooked an enormous colored-up but out-of-season king salmon that went airborne and easily broke off. Eventually, Mimi waded around the bend where she found Big Joe resting on a rock.

“Catch any, Joe?” she asked.

Joe took in a deep, satisfied breath then proceeded to proudly list the dozens of fish he had just landed: grayling, char, silvers, pinks, even an 8-pound rainbow, which would have been the fish of the trip for either of us.

Mimi stood silent for a moment then said: “Wow, Joe, did you leave us any?”

“Oh … sure,” Joe stammered. “There’s still … a … a … pile of fish out there … a pile …”

Mimi walked away before he could finish.

After that, Joe became quiet, you might even say sullen. Defanged, he never made another cast. For the next two days, he put us on more fish, and we caught them. And I recall some genuine highlights: lovely grayling rising to mayflies in riffles, intercepting a 20-inch rainbow that was chasing down salmon smolts like a bonito.

But again, much of the trip has gotten fuzzy. For me, Big Joe could never recover from his original etiquette breach. It was like a loud fart at the beginning of a first date – no matter what happens afterward, no matter how good the meal may have been or how wonderful the movie you just saw, what you remember most is the stink.

ON THE LAST DAY, Joe drove us to the airport. I gave him his tip, which was not a dollar more than adequate, and we boarded our plane. Yeah, I know, but I don’t have it in me to be a crappy tipper or to stiff him outright. Call it a character flaw.

And as for Big Joe … to paraphrase from the ending of one of my favorite movies, The Road Warrior: “That was the last we ever saw of him. He lives now … only in my nightmares.”

Two years later, Mimi and I opted to take our chances on Alaska’s road system and found something far more practical than Big Joe – a beater rental car with a cracked windshield, leaky gas tank and a laminated piece of paper taped to the glove box that read: “Do not put salmon on the back seat.”

We parked the car at the end of a pitted dirt road and hiked along a boardwalk through some muskeg. It ended where a clearwater stream flowed into an estuary. Salmon rolled everywhere. We shared the spot with a few bald eagles and a lone seal, but no one else. And yeah, we caught a pile of fish. ASJ

Editor’s note: Order author Stephen Saunter’s book at amazon.com/Every-Cast-Chronicles- Deeply-Hooked/dp/1493092324.

Q&A WITH AUTHOR STEPHEN SAUTNER

AN AUTHOR’S FISHING OBSESSION

Alaska Sporting Journal editor Chris Cocoles caught up rowboat at the New Jersey Shore to go crabbing. The guy at with author Stephen Sautner, who talked about fishing the dock told us that young bluefish – also called “snappers” obsessions and Alaska adventures. – were also biting. We had no tackle, so he sold us a dropline

Chris Cocoles Great book, Stephen! This isn’t your first work, but it seems like this was a love story written for your love of fishing. What inspired this particular project?
Stephen Sautner So glad you enjoyed the book – my fourth one. I have been writing about fishing for more than 30 years – first for regional magazines, then graduating to national outlets like The New York Times. For this book, I realized I had accumulated a considerable archive of stories about everything from fly fishing for trout and salmon, to surf fishing for striped bass, to ice fishing for perch. And there were other new stories I wanted to tell. So, I gathered my favorite older essays and blended them with new stuff. I guess it’s like when a recording artist drops a “best of” album but includes new bonus tracks.

CC Tell me about what triggered your interest in fishing – it’s interesting that you dedicated your book to your “non-fishing” parents who gave you your first rod and reel at 16 years old.
SS I believe I was born hard-wired to fish. Even before I ever held a rod and reel, water drew me like a magnet. I always wanted to look below the surface and see what lived there. I guess it’s a latent hunting instinct that we all have, but for some of us, the pull is strong and unyielding. No one in my family fished; I am a self-taught angler. When my mom and dad gave me that rod and reel for my birthday, the addiction officially began.

CC Did you have an early moment on the water that really convinced you how much of an angler fanatic you were about to become?
SS When I was maybe 12 years old, my family rented a with a hook and bobber along with some live minnows for bait. When we started fishing, I remember locking in on that bobber like a hawk staring down a rabbit hole. And then … the bobber plunged under the surface, and I caught a snapper. We wound up catching a dozen more and brought them home to eat. That was nearly 50 years ago, and I remember that day with so much joy like it was yesterday. I think many anglers have breakthrough moments like that.

CC I liked how you referred to obsessed fishers like yourself as “fishing junkies – angling’s version of meth heads.” There are a lot of us out there! Was there anything else in your life that you’ve been as passionate about as fishing?

SS In a word: No. I say that jokingly, but it really isn’t a joke. Just ask my family. Fishing remains the one constant in my life that brings me pure child-like joy, excitement and triumph, not to mention occasional pathos. I have been fishing pretty much nonstop since the early 1980s, and I still cannot sleep the night before a fishing trip – kind of like a perpetual 8-year- old on Christmas Eve. I feel very lucky to still have that thrill.

CC When you got there, either on the trip with Big Joe or in a future adventure, did you have an “only in Alaska” moment that makes that state so unique?
SS There is nowhere else I have fished where everything feels so intact – fisheries that have remained largely unchanged and ecosystems still functioning exactly how they were meant to for millennia. But I do acknowledge that there are real human impacts and not all Alaskan fisheries are in good shape. Still, when I’m fishing in Alaska, it sometimes feels like I’ve stepped back into another epoch, like I almost expect a woolly mammoth to come lumbering by when I’m casting.

CC What lessons can you share about that experience with Big Joe? SS The story of Big Joe was largely about a communication problem. If I had been more clear with him before the trip, we would have avoided a lot of our issues. Of course, good communication goes both ways … In any case, I would recommend asking a lot of questions whenever you book a guide, and feel free to move on if you don’t get the answer you like. There are lots of guides and outfitters out there.

CC I also enjoyed the chapter on your fishing trip to waters around Prince William Sound with Jim Leedom and Dave Taft. Besides the silver salmon, you also targeted Dolly Varden, which don’t get as much love as the salmon and trout of Alaska. What was that like for you to fish for Dollies?

SS Back East in my home waters, our native char is the brook trout. A big one is perhaps 10 inches. Dollies, which are also char, remind me a lot or brook trout, except they routinely get much larger. So every time I hooked one, I felt like I was catching the brookie of a lifetime. And they are stunning fish – particularly colored-up males getting ready to spawn.

CC Speaking of Dollies, is part of the allure of Alaska how different your trips can be in terms of the scenery, the diversity of species that you can fish for?
SS When I fished the streams and rivers of Prince William Sound, I could break out my 8-weight and catch silvers until my arms hurt, with glaciers in the background, then retreat into the temperate rainforest – a wonderland of verdant green, where everything is covered in moss and lichen – and hook unlimited 20-inch Dollies on my trout rod. All in the same day. There is no other place like that on earth.

CC Is there an Alaska destination or fishing experience that you want to get back to pursue?
SS Though Big Joe managed to catch an 8-pound rainbow (while I was paying him to put me on fish), I did not. I would love to do that. I did get a taste of rainbows chasing sockeye smolts like pelagic tuna herding sardines. That was a thrill too. Also, I never went halibut fishing. And the wild steelhead of the Tongass sound amazing. Clearly, I need to get back there.

CC And is there another bucket-list location in North America or beyond that you absolutely want to get to someday?
SS I would like to cast dry flies for Atlantic salmon on a river where their numbers are not collapsing – a rarity nowadays.

CC You’re an East Coast guy but have fished all over the map. Is there another locale that you consider sacred, like so many outdoorsmen and -women think about Alaska?
SS Though I had never fished there, Gabon in Central Africa, where you can surfcast for giant tarpon with elephants and gorillas nearby, sounds like a truly sacred place. I had booked a trip to fish there in 2020, but then Covid hit and the world shut down. I need to get there soon.

CC Your wife Mimi accompanied you on the Alaska trip with Big Joe as your guide. Has it been special to experience some of these adventures with her?
SS Mimi loved all our trips to Alaska – particularly when we fished in Cordova on our own schedule, renting a car and just exploring. We still laugh about the time we got muscled out of a salmon hole by a grizzly on Alaganik Slough. I wrote about that in my second book, Fish On, Fish Off.

CC What advice do you have for those who are also addicted to fishing like you are? Is the cure to just keep fishing?!
SS I would tell anyone to pursue their passion – whether it’s fishing, rock climbing or quilting. That’s what makes life worth living. Except golf. I don’t get golf. CC