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Grayling have irregular black spots towards the front of the body. (Photo courtesy of Arctic Grayling Guide Service.) |
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Grayling respond to dry flies. (Photo courtesy of Arctic Grayling Guide Service.) |
Grayling are an exotic species of fish to most American anglers. In appearance they fall somewhere between a trout and a whitefish, but are in their own class with that beautiful, flamboyant dorsal fin used in mating displays. Whether they also use it for navigation is, apparently, arguable, but I believe they do—it feels like it when you have a good one on the line. I'll admit that's less than a purely scientific observation, not unlike assuming the fish live in the fast water to hide from the pike.
The color of an Arctic grayling is hard to describe and can only be hinted at in color photographs. They're subtly iridescent with hints of bronze, faint purple, and silver, depending on how you turn them in the light. They have irregular black spots towards the front of the body and light spots on the bluish dorsal fin, which, on many of the larger Kazan River fish, is rimmed with a pink stripe at the top. They're so pretty, I never quite got used to them.
In Latin they're known as Thymallus arcticus because they're supposed to smell like thyme, though I can't say I ever noticed that, even though I sniffed a few fish when no one was looking. My olfactory memories of the trip are confined to pine, mosquito repellent, and the fabulous aroma of shore lunch: baked beans, homemade bread, onion rings, fresh fish breaded lightly in cornmeal, and industrial-strength camp coffee. Although the delicate white meat of the grayling is excellent, it still comes in second to the pink-fleshed lake trout.
For the record, we used barbless hooks and released most of our fish, as one is encouraged to do by the management of most camps and by the Northwest Territories Wildlife Service, whose conservation policies are very up to date though difficult to enforce in a largely roadless area covering well over a million square miles.
A phrase like "a million square miles" is like "a billion dollars"—you know it's a hell of a lot, but beyond that, it's meaningless. The poetry of the word "wilderness" makes a lot more sense to me, and when I try to conceive of the incredible size of the Northwest Territories (most of the water in which has never been fished, by the way), what comes to mind is the cairn of shed caribou antlers that stands on the beach in front of the camp. This area is big enough and wild enough that herds of these animals can migrate across relatively small pieces of it and remain more or less ignorant of the existence of human beings on the planet.
The Kazan River grayling behaved almost exactly like trout except that they were much easier to lure up to dry flies (when they weren't already rising) than any of the trout I've ever personally known. In fact, dry flies were consistently more effective than nymphs, even for the larger fish, and going under water didn't move larger fish, as it often does on a trout stream.
They weren't exactly selective, but they weren't idiotic, either. Yellow Humpies and Elk Hair Caddises in sizes 16 and 18 worked consistently, but when we got too far from those two in either size or color, the action dropped off noticeably. The Kazan is largely a caddis river (we saw no caddis flies larger than a size 14, most smaller) with a liberal smattering of mayflies, midges, and even stone-flies, but the caddis seems to be the main food source. By the way, all aquatic insects are collectively referred to as "fish flies," as in "big brown fish fly" or "little yellow fish fly."
© Article copyright John Gierach. All rights reserved.
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