So instead, let me tell you
about the big one I caught three days ago.
In the pre-dawn stillness,
I had launched my boat and zoomed upstream. After years of navigating the
river, I can run fast even in the dark and know just how to dodge the motor-killing
ledges and rocks. I headed to my favorite spot where a narrow underwater slot
in shallow rapids funnels any migrating salmon into a predictable run. But a
light in the distance told me someone else had gotten up even earlier and already
was anchored there.
I fished a few hours in the
vicinity, but no salmon. That’s when I decided to move to a spot several miles
upriver and give it a serious shot. It’s a hole well-known to the locals and
fishing guides, but tough to fish, especially alone. That’s why I’d never spent
much time there and never had caught anything.
Deep and fast water below
some gnarly rapids, the hole requires motoring fast across the current and into
a whirlpool right on the rocky bank, ramming the boat’s bow up onto the shallow
rock shelf, then quickly throwing the anchor up on the shore’s rocks, tying the
rope tight, meanwhile hoping the river’s back eddy hasn’t twirled the boat’s
stern back into the current.
An hour into bouncing a gob
of stinky, slimy orange salmon eggs weighted with an ounce of lead sinker
along the bottom twelve feet below, the big salmon grabbed it right as it passed
the back of the boat. Even though I’d not caught a decent-sized salmon since
last fall, it’s kind of like riding a bike. You don’t forget the feeling. There was no doubt this was a big fish.
The spinning reel screamed
as line burned off its spool. “This is why we pay the big money,” I smiled to
myself, enjoying the surge of adrenaline as my light, under-powered rod
shuddered with the strain.
I tightened the reel’s
braking drag to slow the salmon’s run but to no effect. Suddenly, it dawned on
me that I was fast running out of line.With my left hand holding the rod high, line too-quickly vanishing downstream, I jumped to the front of the boat and undid the anchor rope, flipped it overboard, put a foot over the boat’s side and pushed off the shallow ledge into the fast current, then flipped the battery-powered trolling motor into place – all in seconds. Then the chase was on as I scooted downstream while reeling back line as fast as I could.
Time loses meaning when you're fighting a big fish, so I have no idea how long our battle lasted.
Line in, line out – the z-z-z-z-z-zzzz
music that anglers live for.
Netting a big fish alone
can be awkward. With just one hand on the rod and reel, the other handling the big
net, all kinds of things can go wrong. A tricky surge by a lightly-hooked fish,
the net bumps the fish and it freaks out, the net’s mesh snags the hook and not
the fish – I’ve managed any boneheaded mistake possible.Not this time, though. “That is a nice fish,” I gushed out loud, admiring the fat, wild chinook salmon. Thunk! went the priest. Thunk!
I hoisted my prize from the
scales – 20 pounds, 4 ounces. It was my first salmon over 20 pounds – at least
in this, my home water. After taking a few selfies-with-fish, I strung it on a
rope, sliced a knife through its gills to bleed it, and let it hang behind the
boat in the current before bending it to fit in my cooler. Later, I confirmed
it was a hen salmon, full of eggs that now are cured and ready to fool and catch
her kin one day soon.
But not today.
As for that leaky tire that
kept me home – the mechanic just informed me that there was nothing wrong
with it. The wheel’s pressure sensor, which is affixed inside the tire to the
valve stem, had come off (and was just bouncing around the inside of the tire).
Ain’t that a pisser?
Fate decreed that somewhere
in my river, at least one salmon that should have been mine will swim free
today.
