“Finn! You didn’t set three times!” he yelled, “You should have set three times,” and later finished with, “How many times do you always set the hook? … Yeah, three times.”
I made a mental note. Obviously, three is the magic number.
A day later and 10 miles downriver, I stood on the edge of a deep ripple when finally, on what felt like my thousandth cast, I felt the definite thump of a large fish chomping my fly. There was a brief pause before the fish started to movefast!
Set the hook three times, an inner voice told me. I raised the rod, anchored the hook with three consecutive tugs on the line, and felt the unmistakable “twang” relief of a broken line.
Mike, who seemed omnipresent whenever someone did something wrong, pushed the sunglasses up his nose and squinted across the gravel beach at me.
“What happened?” he bellowed.
Confidently, I yelled back, “I set the hook three times just like you said, but the line broke.”
“Was the fish running?”
“Oh, yeah, he was. Like a scalded ape.”
“Never set the line when the fish starts to run. You’ll break the line every time. The fish is just way too powerful.”
Not so confidently, I replied, “Okay, got it! Thanks for the tip.”
I took another mental note. Modified rule number 1always set the hook three times, but not if the fish is running.
That night, after everyone retired to their tents, Mike and I stared into the campfire.
His eyes were nearly at half mast when he raised them slightly to look at me. “You lost that fish today because you were trying to stop his run.”
I couldn’t think of a good reply.
“Never stop a king from running,” he continued. “You’ll only get your knuckles bashed or break your line.” He stood up. “Let the fish run until you get to your backing,” he said, turning and slowly walking away.
I called after him. “What then?”
Over his shoulder, he replied, “You run.”
“Run? What do you mean, run?” My question remained unanswered as Mike hobbled around the far side of his tent. I stared back at the orange coals of the fire and contemplated Mike’s jewel of wisdom.
The next day, we rotated boat crews, and I landed on a boat oared by a guy named Matthew by his mother, but whom everyone else called Predator. He earned his nickname years earlier because of his near legendary ability to stalk and catch any fish at will. Big salmon didn’t pique his interest anymore, so he spent his time either passing on his skills to his son or pursuing the river’s rainbow trout. Often he’d set his hook, then mumble, “Crap. It’s another salmon.” He’d let his line go slack and attempt to shake the hook out. Most people wish they had his problems.
A short time after lunch, we floated through a deep section of river and I hooked into what was either a king salmon or a genetically modified, mutant sockeye salmon on crack. I hedged my bets that it was a king. Predator saw I had a large fish on the line and pointed the raft toward shore.
Just as the boat beached, the fish torpedoed upstream. My reel buzzed like it was going to melt down. I allowed the fish take line as I had been instructed to do; I was confident. I glanced down and saw I was now into backing, but it, too, was disappearing. I suddenly had little line left; now I wasn’t so confident.
I instinctively put my hand on the outside of the reel and pushed against it. The friction nearly burned my skin.
I made my way along the shoreline, reeling and leaning against the line the entire way. I knew something was wrong. Whatever I was trying to reel in didn’t feel alive, just heavy.
My confidence completely faded at the sight of the line disappearing into a tangle of submerged tree roots. The fish won.
With his usual knack for perfect timing, Mike floated his red boat right over the tree root as I stood looking into the river.
“You didn’t run, did you?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
I shook my head.
“Next time, hop off that boat, dog-paddle to shore, do whatever it takes, but get to terra firma and run after the beast. Beat him with your feet.”
I nodded that I understood. Even though it was a clear day, I felt like a little cloud had appeared and dumped rain over my head as I stood alone on that gravel beach.
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