The end of my line thrashed back and forth at the surface, throwing water in every direction. But the fish didn’t turn and run, so the hook wasn’t set, and the tension I kept was in the direction that helped the fish.
The fly popped out, and the rod straightened. I let out the breath I had held since the salmon was taken.
“Dang it.”
My response was more factual than emotional, which doesn’t always happen. Too much emotion can displace you from that sweet spot of caring enough to focus but not so much that you can’t function under the weight of your own pressure or frustration.
I kept my emotions in check and dealt with the facts. I hooked a king. Now, it was gone.
Dave was quiet and let me dictate the terms of the conversation from there.
“So… where were we?” I asked, letting him know I wasn’t going to be inconsolable for the rest of the trip. “If I could go back in time, it would be 2 minutes ago.”
It was a clean, precise joke. I hadn’t done anything wrong; sometimes, the fish wins. Still, after three hours, it was nice to have some action. We continued our conversation about places to fish, the past, and the future, interjecting with comments about the tide, casting direction, or the swinging line. The chatter was simple, so I was able to maintain focus.
“Fish.”
This one turned its head and ran, embedding the hook. We had a chance. I settled into what I knew would be a long fight.
A 12-inch brookie feels big on a 1-weight fly rod. Battle a 20-inch brown trout on a 5-weight, and you’ll feel under-equipped. But steelhead and king salmon are a different category. A 20-pound king salmon on an 8-weight is an adventure.
Rods are typically broken by doors and feet, but a big fish can make you wonder if the carbon fibers that are being stretched and compressed will hold when severely bent. A strong fish makes me wonder more about the line. Twenty-pound fluorocarbon is rated to break at 20 pounds of force, but that doesn’t mean it will break at 20 pounds of force or that you can’t land a fish bigger than 20 pounds.
Alternatively, a 20-pound test can break at less than what it says on the box thanks to knots, abrasion, or because the universe doesn’t want you to have a fish. Regardless, the science of modern fishing escaped me as I gained the line that my reel lost to the fish. I reached the narrow focus of an angler with a singular goal and noticed Dave only when he gave suggestions. Dave is calm and doesn’t fill the air with fake elation or cheesy lines. He’s all business without being stern or severe.
The closer the fish got, the deeper the bend in the rod and the more strain on the line. It held off the starboard side of the skiff, and I tried to get a feel for its disposition by lifting the rod. I figured it would either provoke a run or give Dave a chance to net it, but the fish just glided to the other side of the boat.
I lifted again, and this time, it came to the surface, flashed, and dove but didn’t run. After the next lift, it lingered near the surface long enough for Dave to slide the net under, scoop, and bring the fish on board. Everything had held, and whatever I had done wrong hadn’t mattered.
There was no better time than right now.
• Jeff Lund is a freelance writer based in Ketchikan. His book, “A Miserable Paradise: Life in Southeast Alaska,” is available in local bookstores and at Amazon.com. “I Went to the Woods” appears twice per month in the Sports & Outdoors section of the Juneau Empire.
