We stop along the Denali Highway. Here in Rock Creek are Arctic grayling. Ian can’t resist. He casts, the spinning of his reel intrudes on the stream’s mumblings and the quiet conversations of birds in the trees overhead. I relax on the bank.
Later, we travel with our friends Barbara and Jeff to the confluence of the Kenai and Russian Rivers, one of the busiest salmon fishing sites in Alaska. Here, we will experience the seasonal ritual of combat fishing. The battle for spots along these rivers, and the tight proximity of the fisherfolk to each other, give combat fishing its name.
We take the ferry from Sportsman’s Landing across the river, which is choked with fisherfolk. We make our way upriver, well scrutinized, especially me, the one carrying binoculars, notebook, and no fishing gear. We find space further up and settle in.
All along the river the fisherfolk cast and tease, cast and tease, hoping to entice a fish to take their fly. It’s quiet here, but not the quiet of Rock Creek. This is the quiet of intense concentration.
Jeff hooks a fish within half an hour, one of the day’s few catches, garnering stares from all along the river. People eye his spot. Barbara, next to him, hooks a fish. It gets away, but her cry of disappointment only increases the interest in this stretch. Sitting on a fallen tree on shore, I sweep the line with my binoculars. The stares in my direction continue. Perhaps they worry I am from the Department of Fish and Game.
I think about the compulsion to chase and capture prey — prey drive. If that is what fishing is, my companions have it, their focus on fishing laser sharp. But it turns out that prey drive is not an accurate term for what happens in the brain during pursuit. As Temple Grandin and Catherine Johnson explain in Animals in Translation, researchers once thought that dopamine, the primary neurotransmitter involved in this process, stimulated the brain’s Pleasure Center, that predators got pleasure from chasing and capturing prey.
Based on recent studies, however, scientists now know that dopamine stimulates the brain’s Seeking Center, which creates a sense of excitement and curiosity in people. Other species exhibit intense curiosity when the Seeking Center is stimulated. But the excitement of seeking prey, and the behavior of killing, are controlled by different brain circuits. The Seeking Center starts firing when an animal detects indications of food and stops when it sees food. Then, killing behavior takes over.
Jeff, though serious about fishing, has been at it long enough to appear relaxed. He turns and talks to me while casting, letting muscle memory take over, before turning to concentrate again. A gull flies in front of me, trying for Jeff’s fish on the bank. It gives up after being thwarted multiple times. Gulls are adept predators, but they prefer the life of a kleptoparasite, harassing other birds to drop their food, or attempting to snatch fish left on a bank by careless humans.
Barbara comes to sit by me while she repairs her snagged line, curious about what I am writing. I explain I am taking notes which may, or may not, turn into something. I ask her what it is about fishing that excites her.
From under a cut in the bank across the river, a merganser appears. She rests on the water. Her young pop out, make their way to shore, then hastily return to the cut. Their mother, seeing them settled, tucks her head under her wing to rest, never changing her position on the water, despite the strong current. I stand. She lifts her head. We study each other. She tucks her head back in.
Does observation stimulate the Seeking Center? Are some people, me, for example, curious but not excited about pursuing prey? A 2007 study, Category-specific attention for animals reflects ancestral priorities, not expertise by New et al., found when participants looked at a series of pictures where one element was eliminated, they could more easily detect a missing person or animal than they could a plant, building, or vehicle.
Participants detected human and elephant presence, then absence, 100% of the time, but when the missing object was a colorful vehicle accuracy dropped to just 72%. More surprising, people viewing a picture of a pigeon on a sidewalk — grey on grey and tiny compared to the rest of the scene — detected its absence 91% of the time. Perhaps my Seeking Center is content with observation.
Along the river, fisherfolk continue to cast and tease. The merganser family crosses the river, swimming and diving between fishing lines. I worry about their safety, but they return without incident, only to come back, running on the water without taking off, passing close to Ian. I call. He stops to watch until the birds return to the other side.
A raft full of fisherfolk drifts past on the other side of the island. On the hill above, Dall sheep perform the fission-fusion dance of social wildlife, mothers and lambs gathering, then separating. A bald eagle cruises low over Ian. Yellow-rumped warblers collect in a dead pine, then fly in all directions. The crowd up and down the river ebbs and flows. Some give up. But the rhythm of the river, and of nature, never ceases.
Ian catches a fish. The gull returns to try its luck, failing again. My companions wade ashore and pack their gear, their places taken almost before they reach land. We make our way to the ferry, load the truck and drive back to Anchorage, hoping to see mountain goats on the cliffs beside the road. We find none, but it doesn’t matter. Our Seeking Centers are replete, and soon we will honor our Pleasure Centers with grilled salmon, fine wine and excellent company.