The Dollies strike the bead quick and short--a mere halting of the indicator is all you see or feel--and most are hooked on the side of the mouth as they sweep the egg. Everything is fast in this water, and the fish are mostly in the 12- to 14 -inch range, scrappy and hard-charging. After a dozen or so brought to hand, I wade upstream, under the highway bridge, to fish a stretch of water narrowed by boulders cased in deep green moss, overhung by white birch ( and hang a backcast almost immediately). The roar of a waterfall drowns out the noise from the road--I've reached the end of the spawning grounds, already. From here on up the creek is nothing but a series of falls, a hyper-aerated and freezing cold torrent dropping from some snowpacked alpine cirque above through forests and understory as dense as the walls of a tunnel. It seems a million miles away from the Gastineau Channel, from the salt, but it's less than a thousand yards. I wonder, for the first time, how could something so powerful - that incredible display of sea-run fish and just pure natural abundance on that 1000 yards of freshwater creek--be so fragile? But of course we had that same abundance in the lower 48, too, in every creek and river from Washington to southern California, and we traded it away. The original Dolly Vardens, named for a colorful female character in a Charles Dickens novel, were actually the very similar bull trout (Salvelinus confluentus). In the McCloud River of California where the fish was first named in the latter 19th century, it is has been extinct since the 1970s. We have reached the point where we can no longer take abundance for granted.