Extreme Fishing (9 page)

‘King on deck!’ says Keith.

In over thirty years of casting a line for salmon and trout, this is Keith’s fastest bite ever.

‘That took us, what, a minute?’ says Keith.

Thirty seconds, more like. I try in vain to deliver a PTC that will enlighten, educate and inspire the viewer but what they get is, ‘Hey . . . Woo, man, that’s a FISH! You’re
the man, Keith! You’re the lad!’ I present my catch to the lens saying, ‘This is the number-one salmon of them all. You’ve got your sockeye, your pink and your chum salmon
but this is why we came to Alaska. Every salmon fisherman’s dream is the king salmon.’ I then drop the fish. I bloody drop it. Keith and his son share a look of incredulity. Their
silence speaks volumes.

Some time later, I manage to mend bridges when we start talking of our shared passion for fishing. Ross says, ‘Once you get addicted, you’re done.’ And he’s right: it is
an addiction, but what a healthy one – and you don’t need to spend months in the Priory to get over it, which is a key point to underline to loved ones when explaining long absences and
substantial financial investment in the sport. ‘Yes, I know it’s expensive, darling, but if I gave up fishing and took up crack . . . In the long term, fishing would be cheaper.’
Google the cost of the Priory. You could come to Alaska five times over and still have cash to spare for bone fishing in the Bahamas!

Was that first king a fluke? Not on your nelly: within five minutes I have my three kings – a salmon hat-trick off the coast of Homer. Extreme location, extreme
temperature and wonderful company – when catching salmon, it doesn’t get any better than this.

Later that evening, although it’s hard to tell whether it’s day or night because it’s dark most of the time, I cut the fish into steaks, cover them in lemon and butter and fry
them on a shovel over an open fire on the beach. It’s Newcastle’s answer to
The Galloping Gourmet
.

There’s a Moose Loose

The next day Jamie, the director, thinks it would be funny to film a PTC of me trying to attract a moose with loud calls. I think it’s a stupid idea. I mean, is he
trying to finish my acting career off? The only thing I’ll be good for after this show is Maynard’s Wine Gums – ‘There’s a moose loose aboot this hoose.’
That’s worse than Rob Brydon’s Toilet Duck low. Of course I end up doing it.

Cue my moose mating calls. I stand in the middle of the woods and attempt to find one of the elusive 150,000 moose that live here. My male moose sounds like a cow and my female call to attract a
male (bloody hell) sounds like I’ve popped my own testes with a plastic spoon. Awwwwwwahooooohhoooaaaaa! I wail into the icy tree-lined void for half an hour but to no avail. Unlike my lady
fans, they don’t come running, clutching their bangers and a Robson & Jerome CD, free with
Take a Break
magazine. Never mind – apparently nine out of ten men who try moose
prefer women. I’m assured by Jamie that it’s TV gold. I love Jamie but he is also a buffoon.

So where next for this Green fisherman? Fishing for northern pike with a nine-pronged spear through six feet of ice in the middle of bleeding nowhere, of course. After another epic journey in
our uncomfortable van we arrive in Wasilla, where former Alaskan governor and prospective Veep (Vice President) Sarah Palin cut her teeth as mayor, and what a mare she is! It’s 0600 hours and
it’s bloody cold with a high of –7°C, according to a very depressed-sounding radio weather forecaster. It must be like
Groundhog Day
at this time of year: ‘What’s
the weather like?’ ‘Cold.’ ‘And later?’ ‘Colder.’
He needs to eat more salmon
, I think to myself – a portion a day will give you 90 per cent
of your vitamin D intake (which is important when you’re not getting enough sunlight) and it’s rich in calcium, phosphorus and Omega-3.

Two people who aren’t lacking fish in their wild diet are hunters Howard and Deborah Tieden. They’ve invited me into their home, which is a bit like a natural history museum. It
seems after enjoying a good meal they like to remember it forever by having it stuffed. I imagine Howard looking up at his mounted caribou head and thinking, ‘Those were the best goddamn hot
dogs I have ever had.’ Uncle Matheson would love this house – there’s a creature at every turn: a bear, an antelope, a pheasant and a moose . . .

‘Hey, I found one, Jamie!’ I say, pointing.

Maybe the Tiedens have eaten all of the moose and that’s why we haven’t seen one yet?

In Alaska everyone with a resident’s permit is entitled to shoot one moose a year during the season, which runs August through September. Howard’s weapon of choice is a bow and
arrow, but today we will be using a spear, because thankfully we’re going in pursuit of a much smaller but nonetheless incredibly ferocious predator, the northern pike. Howard passes me the
fishing spear, which looks more like Ruprecht’s trident in
Dirty Rotten Scoundrels
or a really rubbish garden rake. Howard assures me it’s a spear.

‘We’re going to use this under the ice,’ he says.

I’m ready to hit the road but as I head towards the truck Howard shakes his head and opens the doors to a massive double garage, in which is parked a gleaming white plane. It’s so
small it looks like toy.
Oh, great
, I think. I bloody hate light aircraft.

‘Where we’re going is two hundred miles into the interior and only accessible by air,’ says Howard.

I make Jamie check the map. Howard’s right. Out of the 300 million lakes, he had to pick one miles from a bloody road.

My guide insists that the best pike are found in this lake at the bottom of Sleeping Lady Mountain, which is a mountain that – yes, you’ve got it – looks like
a Native American lass flat on her back knocking out the zeds. Howard is an extraordinary bush pilot who fears absolutely nothing as we hurtle along at 200 m.p.h. ten feet above the treetops. His
landing is perfect, and, after another change of underwear, we get down to work setting up our camp, drilling and sawing into three feet of ice and then setting a canopy over the hole we’ve
created. It’s a spin on the ancient Native American method of ice fishing that has fed families for centuries. In fact, it’s pretty much the same save the tent, a better rod and the
plane to get here!

We are fishing at a depth of eight feet. After laying sliced potato segments at the bottom of the hole, to reflect the light and show the outline of any predator that swims past, I dangle my
simple red and white fish-shaped wooden lure down the hole and stare into the icy water below. The pike (
Esox lucius
) is an ambush predator that lies in wait before selecting its target and
WHAM!, it quickly takes down its prey with its deadly jaws and teeth. Its long, slender and compressed shape is perfect for propelling it at high speeds over short distances. What I need is focus,
speed and lightning reflexes – three things I lack. I open my eyes wide and raise my spear, primed for attack. I stare and wait and stare and wait. It looks almost instantaneous on camera but
in reality it takes bloody ages. A long, black silhouette appears below me and smashes into the lure.

‘Hit it, Robson!’ Howard shouts, and in one swift movement I launch the spear into the back of its skull. It’s over in a second. I have just speared my first-ever northern pike
– and a fine specimen it is, too. I pull my spear out of the water and haul up an ugly and fearsome-looking creature with an impressive set of gnashers. I can see why the Latin name
translates as ‘wolf fish’.

Back in the UK, pike are a catch-and-release quarry, as 99 per cent of anglers believe that the fish are far too bony to eat. But it’s the water quality that makes the difference. Out here
it’s gin-clear, whereas in Britain the lakes are earthy, which undoubtedly affects the flavour. It will be interesting to see how this pike tastes.

This lake used to hold salmon and grayling but once the pike were introduced there was only going to be one outcome: annihilation. As a consequence, the pike feed on pike in rampant piscatorial
cannibalism.

‘OK, let’s do something about that and see how many I can land for our dinner before they eat each other,’ I say.

Within minutes I spear my second
Esox lucius
and for the next three hours it’s non-stop action. After that the only thing to do is take off from the soft, squidgy bottom of the
Sleeping Lady and head back to the Tiedens’ stuffed-menagerie HQ in Wasilla to poach our pike.

It’s a beautiful sunset flight back to Howard’s house and I am more relaxed after a good day’s fishing. Howard tells me about the time he got stuck for nine days at the
Sleeping Lady lake with two other pilots and nine Japanese tourists.

‘It was 9/11 and the authorities closed the entire skies. We were told there was no way we could take off so we made a camp and survived on pike until the restrictions were lifted and we
could go home.’

After that experience I’m surprised Howard ever wanted to eat pike again!

We land smoothly on the runway next to his house. Howard, the crew and I jump out and together we push the small plane back into the double garage. I am coming round to the idea of small planes.
I mean, how cool would it be to have one in your garage? Deborah is waiting to relieve us of the pike, which she pops in the oven with butter and lemon slices. We enjoy a beer around the kitchen
table before sitting down to sample Mrs Tieden’s pike supper. It’s absolutely exquisite. I tell them many people in the UK don’t eat pike because it’s supposed to be bony;
Howard says it is, but only on one side, and that the flesh is easy to pull off the bone. I have to say the taste is up there with my top fish suppers. It might even have just knocked haddock off
the top spot.

The Kenai

It’s been a lifelong dream to come to the Kenai, a large peninsula jutting from the southern coast of Alaska, but the question is, will it live up to my
expectations? The icy water is crystal-clear, tinged with an iridescent mineral green that adds a Pre-Raphaelite romanticism to the setting. Snow-dusted pine trees line the water’s edge,
shaken only by the occasion fish eagle jumping into flight to skim the water and take its prey. A brown bear casually tosses a half-eaten salmon aside and wanders into the forest as we arrive. It
is everything I had hoped for and more, and I haven’t even got out of the van!

In 1985 a ninety-seven-pound salmon was landed out of the river and it still stands as the biggest salmon ever caught anywhere in the world. But today I’m after rainbow trout, with the
help of the Collette Bros. Carl and Billy are no ordinary brothers, and these are no ordinary rainbow trout – they’re some of the best in the world.

Billy says, ‘Let’s just say they’re not on the Weight Watchers programme. They’re real big and they’re real fat.’

Carl and Billy were, in their own words, born to fish. They also have a penchant for chewing tobacco, and as we row out into the river there is a ‘phut-tink’ every sixty seconds. At
first I think they are unwell as I watch them perpetually hack and gob. Perhaps it’s the flu or maybe bronchitis brought on by the cold? However, I soon deduce the reason they both have
protruding lower lips is not owing to bundled forceps deliveries, as I had first thought, but to their sizeable pouches of tobacco. As Carl speaks I catch a glimpse of his ‘gobbet’ just
in front of his stained yellow teeth. Within just five minutes of being in their company, I can tell that my time on the Kenai is going to be memorable.

It’s as cold and quiet as a cathedral out on the river and there couldn’t be a more spiritual setting for a fly-fisherman. The snow-covered mountains create one of the most dramatic
back-drops I have ever seen. Otters feed greedily on the shore of the glacier-fed river and a large bald eagle watches over me from a leafless tree. Phut-tink! Carl spits another gobbet into the
water. I watch it disperse like congealed blood.

As I prepare for my first cast on the Kenai, I am tingling with excitement. I am using an egg fly as my lure. Salmon eggs are the reason why these rainbow trout and steelheads, like the ones I
caught with Crap Anagram in Canada, are so fat. Most are stream residents and it’s difficult to tell the anadromous
⁴
fish apart. When the female
salmon lays thousands of eggs in her riverbed redd, or nest, many are simply washed away by the current into feeding channels, where hefty rainbows are ready waiting for them, gobs open. Our plan
is to replicate nature by gently floating downstream and through a series of turns, casting the egg under the noses of the rainbows that lie in wait below the surface. The water is so clear that I
can see the fish moving about fifteen feet down and I can tell by their darting moves they are hungry.

Fly-fishing has a rhythm to it. I relax into my casts and remember a few tips Uncle Matheson taught me. I gently take the rod back, whisking the line over my shoulder until it’s nearly
straight; I pause and then, bringing my arm gently forward, watch the loops of the line unfurl and straighten on the water about twenty metres in front of my rod. I am happy with my cast. I feel a
nibble and set the rod by quickly bringing the tip up from the water to the sky. This action hooks the lip of the fish and, as we say on the show, ‘I am in.’ I can see the trout:
it’s about seven pounds in weight but is fighting like a twenty-pound salmon! She runs, taking twenty-five metres of line with her. These rainbow trout are true Olympians of the river –
think Jessica Ennis (well, any excuse!). Her run is continuous, powerful and downwards. That’s the difference between rainbows and brown trout: rainbows fight deep, whereas browns flap on the
surface.

There is no way this fish is going to come in quickly. I just need to keep her away from the fast-moving current, the boat and the hungry eagles lurking in the treetops, ready to launch at an
unsuspecting angler’s quarry. I let her run again and she takes the line upriver like a champion. Then, very slowly, I begin the retrieve and reel her towards me, keeping the line tight. She
runs again but after about fifteen minutes the angling stalemate is over. She is spent, and I am able to gently guide the fish into the landing net and celebrate her beauty with the world. Her
scales are pinks, greens and yellow hues, all the colours of the rainbow.