The rising sun scattered its light like a wildfire over the mountains of Alaska as we drove through the remote countryside. The old van we occupied, softened by this rough landscape, groaned loudly as the weight of the drift boat trailing behind pulled mercilessly against the rusty trailer hitch. The windshield was rendered a visual barrier by a series of intricate cracks branching off like a spider web. Inside, the tired passengers remained quiet, listening to the rattling of the rods and the exuberance of our guide, Jorge.
Jorge bounced up and down in the driver’s seat, itching to get out on the water. “Generally, I find I am more excited to fish than my clients,” he said. I believed him. His bottled energy was like watching a little kid waiting to open his birthday presents. Growing up in southern California, he learned to love the water from an early age through fishing and surfing. Via his native tongue, which included a strange patois of California surf slang and fishing jargon, he explained his journey from working on charter fishing boats up and down the west coast, to becoming a guide and plumber here in Alaska. Plumbing keeps his hands busy in the off-season, while his mind constantly wanders to fishing. His big smile widened with any mention of fishing, showing his false front tooth. His face looked young, but his actual age remained a mystery. He had the least amount of facial hair of any guide I have encountered, which is critical; I initially and almost solely base the credibility of my guides on the amount of beard growth they have accumulated. Jorge’s mere stubble speckled face alarmed me. However, he quickly dashed these concerns as he unloaded heaps of knowledge on our tired minds about the river and its fisheries. ”Fish are like my children,” he admitted.
Jorge’s kind-hearted personality emerged throughout the float. Each beautiful pool and riffle seemed to hold a story of catching or losing monster rainbow trout. Then, while focusing on my indicator drifting over a salmon bead in the teal water, a sudden echoing thud erupted from the back of the drift boat. Beads and flies went everywhere as Jorge leapt almost clean into the glacial water in a single explosive bound. The large, pissed off Alaskan rainbow on the end of our fellow angler’s line shot out of the water like a torpedo, thrashed his head, and was gone. “That was awesome!” Jorge shouted and gave the girl responsible for the long distance release an excited high five. I have never seen somebody so thrilled to lose a fish. I was devastated we didn’t pull in that river hog, but Jorge’s genuine excitement quickly had me looking on the bright side. “Seeing these big rainbows jump is enough thrill for us guides,” he said trying to validate his explosion. It couldn’t have been on the line for more than five seconds, but that was plenty to get our fish-obsessed guide’s blood pumping. He settled back into his seat and slipped his hands back over the oars. With a huge smile on his face he proceeded to calmly steer away from a fallen tree a few feet from our bow, which we had nearly drifted into during the excitement. Our lines did not remain loose very often that day as Dolly Varden, salmon, and rainbows were inhaling our salmon beads. However, none of us were ever as pumped about the fish as our peace-and-big-‘bow-loving guide Jorge.
