I spent a week south of Tok, chasing after Arctic Grayling. The rivers, however, remained stubbornly opaque, their waters refusing to reveal the elusive fish. The prospect of sustaining myself solely on my catch, a long-held desire, slipped through my fingers like the swift currents.
But there, on the bright side, a pair of swans graced the tranquil expanse of the little lake where I pitched my camp. Their elegant presence offered solace amidst my dashed hopes. Eventually, resigned to the obstinate rivers, I abandoned my patient wait, promising myself another attempt on the homeward trail. Perhaps then, fortune shall favor my angler’s soul.
