Curse of the bull moose
The Yukon River is usually full of silt, so much so, it brushes the shore and slips past the boat with a faint hiss. As winter approaches the water clears to thick, jade green. The glaciers in the great mountains of British Columbia begin to re-freeze and no longer pour their flow of mud and ground rock into the valleys. Homer listening to a lone wolf howling across river The river is now clearer, and shallower, than I’ve ever seen it. Incredibly, there is no ice at the shore and we can gaze right down onto the muddy pebbles a few feet below. But still we can’t catch one damn fish. Dead vole for bait. Bit optimistic “There are no grayling, there can’t be!” Neil was convinced until a family of otters moved in this week. Unless they brought pizza from Dawson, they must be living off something. Otter tracks I patrol at dawn and dusk with the .22, hoping to shoot a grouse whilst our ‘gun dog’ directs me to every