The Origin Story

Grayling Education’s origin was born out of perseverance, grit, and love. Nonetheless, it’s a tough story, depending on how you interpret it. For many who don’t know, a grayling is a freshwater salmonid belonging to the Salmonidae family and relating to trout and salmon. By no means is it my favorite fish.

Arctic Grayling (Thymallus arcticus), a species once more widespread, is now diminished to certain regions of the Arctic, like Canada, Alaska, Siberia, and parts of Montana. Known for its purple-blue iridescent colors and recognizable sail-like dorsal fin, this particular fish haunted my dreams, reminding me that effort sometimes does not equate to success, and it continued to prance around the watersheds while mocking me with its brief appearance.

There was no reason I sought after the fish other than to see its presence cross off another species and after learning more about its elusiveness and the barriers it faces to be able to survive and exist. It was 2021, and I was living in Montana and was diagnosed with PTSD. It was also the same year I set out to catch the grayling. It was a pivotal point in my life where I was living outside my body and allowing the hollowed-out flesh to feel all the pain and emotions. I was at a standstill, and life was passing me by.

Fast forward a few years and many tries later, it was the summer of 2023, and I was in Yellowstone National Park to meet up with some friends for a fishing trip. On one of the outings there, a friend introduced me to a spot where the stream housed grayling and Westslope cutthroat trout (Oncorhynchus clarkii lewisi). Throughout the day, I managed to hook onto nothing but cutthroat trout while my friend caught the graylings.

We were using the same flies, fishing the same stream, and standing only a few feet apart. We ditched the spot and hiked a few miles into an alpine lake, where the fish would be found. The same thing occurred - the grayling was more attracted to my friend, and I was once again hooking onto cutthroat trout. Something was up, and I was densensitized to the events and grateful to have at least seen the fish.

It was the following morning, and I had asked another friend to come out with me to the same spot. The weather didn’t look promising as we slid into our waders and pieced together the fly rods. I had little to no perseverance left, and the feelings were neither disappointment nor excitement; they just were. A bear track imprinted freshly in the mud alongside the stream bank, and I double-checked for my bear spray. I tied on my favorite fly, the parachute Adam, and asked if I could make the first cast.

With a few whips of the line, I made a questionable cast, and the dry fly landed about ten feet before me and stood still on top of the surface. The lack of wind and the dreary morning weather did not present a promising feast for the fish underneath. Even the bubbles were at a standstill. Impatient and sad about my offering, I went to recast.

Until.

A single sip from the surface submerged my once-floating fly; it felt like an all too familiar fight of a fish. My friend halted what she was doing and came over, gripping her untied line with her teeth to net my fish. “It’s a grayling!” she exclaimed. “No, it’s not,” I replied with disbelief and defeat. “Anna, it’s a grayling.” my friend sternly responded as she looked me in the eye. I walked over to the bank and looked into the net; lo and behold, the fish greeted me with a flash of its large shimmering dorsal fin. It was a grayling.