by Rich Hohne
On a trip to Alaska two years ago, I discovered that I actually love bead fishing. Okay, “love” might be a bit extreme, but after I stuffed my ego into my unused dry fly box, I developed a healthy respect for plastic orbs. Here’s an excerpt from the mea culpa I penned after my last trip to AK:
“We were targeting giant trout and char, but this time of year the trout and char have their snouts stuffed so far up sockeye butts, they’re practically wearing the salmon as hats. You can throw all the delicate dries or triple articulated streamers you want, but if you want to actually catch fish on your once-in-a-lifetime fishing trip, then you should probably listen to your guide, and our guides were all about the beads. I, for one, listen to guides, and besides, any sense of purist elitism disappeared the first time I saw my backing knot click past my rod tip. Say what you will about beads, the damn things work.”
By the end of that week, I was also all about the beads, a full convert. I came home to Montana preaching the gospel of Wet N’ Wild nail polish. Not on the Madison or the Yellowstone, but when in Nome . . .
Fast forward 24 months. I returned to Royal Coachman Lodge this summer prepared to shower the river in beads and bobbers then bask in the fishy riches I would receive. My expectations proved accurate. One day, I landed more than a dozen trout over 25 inches, including one rainbow pushing 29. The fishing wasn’t good, it was ridiculous.
A few days in, I discovered there may be such a thing as too many fish. My arm began to tire, and staring at an indicator (even one that was usually underwater) started to feel a little soulless. I repressed these thoughts, because anyone who complains about the kind of fishing I got to enjoy doesn’t deserve to be fishing at all.
On day four of the trip, we flew out to a spot I’d never seen before. The floatplane ride gave me a blissful hour staring out the window of the Beaver as we crossed mountain ranges and banked over tundra expanses before eventually touching down on a brand new piece of water.
Andrew pulled the guide staff short straw that day and got me. He and I started out fishing the lake outlet while Tor, Norse god turned bush pilot, guarded the plane from curious bears. Andrew had earned my trust by opening beers with his head the first night we met, so when he suggested a change of pace I was intrigued. Instead of a bead, how about fishing a mouse?
I’ve experienced amazing mousing in Alaska before but believed success with aquatic Rodentia to be time and watershed dependent. When the sockeye salmon gravy train rolls through, the trout develop tunnel vision. They don’t look at the caddis flying overhead, the smolt migrating downstream, the nymphs drifting in the current, or the mottled baby lampreys eeling about; they only want pink and peach-colored egg “patterns.” At least, that’s what I was always told.
In response to this argument, Andrew just shrugged, tied a Morrish Mouse onto 20 lb. Maxima and explained his thinking. Salmon reach the river later in the season than the other rivers we had been fishing, so the trout might not be solely focused on roe yet. This river also meanders through a lush, grassy riparian zone that looks like it could house a solid population of voles. That seemed logical enough, and as I said before, I listen to guides, so I began giddily chucking that mouse pattern to the far bank. Three casts in, a 20+ inch rainbow devoured it. Turns out, Andrew can peg more than beads.
For the next five hours, I watched large rainbows smash mice every seven to eight casts. Though the hookup and landing ratios were low, this did not feel like a loss. I could have stuck to the bead program and caught more fish, but I had already caught plenty of fish. How many trout do you need to fondle? That day marked my lowest body count, but it was also the crescendo of the trip. I got to cast a mouse, twitch it across foot-deep water, and watch waking rainbows track and annihilate the fly. Why hadn’t I been doing this all week? 
That night at dinner, I asked the lodge's head guide, Tony Gugino, what would have happened if I had exclusively used mouse flies the day he and I had fished together and I lucked into so many massive rainbows. Would I have caught half as many fish? A third?
“Way less,” he told me. “You’d have been lucky to get five strikes and one fish to hand.”
Fly fishing requires anglers to strike a personal balance. We choose to use the gear we find most satisfying, but we often make compromises to please the whims of the fish. Chucking a weighted bobber and bead rig required me to compromise some of the elegance and joy I get from fly casting. In return, I caught a shitload of giant fish. Would I have traded the success I had on beads most of the week for the satisfaction of fishing mice? Probably not.
Who controls how you fish? You? Your quarry? Probably some combination of both, but you get to explore that balance with every cast you make. Every time you hit the water, you have the freedom to fish however you want (so long as it’s legal). I’m not telling you how to fish or what to cast. Part of the beauty of this sport is your agency in making that decision. I’m suggesting we remain conscious of that freedom. It’s one of the most satisfying and empowering aspects of fly fishing.