You row facing
forward in a drift boat. This isn’t a lake, where you don’t need to see where
you’re going. On a river full of rocks, turns, downed trees, and other
potential boat-eating obstacles, you don’t want to turn your back on the view.
I rowed us out into
the main current, then repeated my mantra. “Main rule, stay seated unless I
tell you otherwise. We fish when the river runs high because that’s when the
salmon come in, but that can make the Sol Duc one mean river. If you fall in,
chances are good we won’t see you again until your body floats up somewhere.”
I’ll never be able to say those words quite the same again.
When we were well
onto the river, I had Spencer and Emerson drop the plugs I had already fastened
to the ends of their lines. It’s called letting the river do the fishing. The
current takes the lures downriver, I row against the current to keep everything
flowing smoothly, and when the lure bumps into a fish, the fish might get
annoyed and bite it. Not having the clients cast protects us all – a hook in
the head is nothing to laugh about – and saves losing a ton of gear. Take a
float down any fishing river around here and you can admire all the sparkly
spinners, plus, and lures hanging in the trees. They don’t call this region a
temperate rain forest for nothing. The trees grow right to the river and often
arch over from both banks, and are dripping with “moss” (actually, not moss,
but that’s what the tourists call it). I once brought a pole pruner out to the
river and harvested a whole season’s worth of shiny lures, just from the places
where you could reach over the water. If you put a second person in a drift
boat with a pole pruner and made your way down the river, you could probably
rake in four figures worth of fishing paraphernalia.
“Watch your rod tip.
It’ll bounce as the plug goes over rocks, but if it really bends, you’ve got a
fish on. Pick up your rod and try to keep some tension on the line. Do NOT jerk
the rod to set the hook. You’ll pull it out of the fish’s mouth. Let the fish
dictate the action and just keep a steady tension. If the fish runs toward you,
reel as fast as you can. If it runs away, let it take out line.”
“So we just sit here
and wait?” Emerson asked.
“Enjoy the scenery.”
I took to watching the
two in Jack’s boat. They were casting spinners, something you don’t usually see
on a guide’s oat. And they were good, but they weren’t having any luck either.
I went back to scanning downstream for any obstacles to dodge, with my
peripheral vision on the rod tips on either side of me. And hallelujah, the one
on the right have a downward jerk, rebounded, then dipped down again.
But the action of the
rod and line just wasn’t right. Though the name Sol Duc is a corruption of the
old Klallam “Sol’ll Tak,” meaning “sparkling water,” I couldn’t see a fish or
anything else through all the riffles. I waited a little to be sure, but
whatever he was hooked to wasn’t moving up or downstream. I sighed.
“You’re snagged.
Break it off.”
“You’re wrong.” And
he proceeded to crank harder on the reel. Which I knew would end up with the
line breaking anyway. “See! It’s pulling back. It’s a monster.”
The water at the edge
of the rootball changed pattern. Damned if he wasn’t right.
“Just keep tension.
Don’t try and horse him in or you’ll lose him.”
“I’m trying.”
“Oh my God.” And I
scrambled to grab the anchor and throw it over without ceremony. “Holy crap,
holy crap, holy crap.” As soon as the boat held firm, I yanked the rod away
from Spencer. “Jack, get over here. Now!”
“Hey, what the hell!”
But I was done paying
attention to Spencer or Emers or even Jack. Because as the tension on the line
had increased, the hooked object had appeared. And it wasn’t a root, or a fish,
or anything customary in my world. It was a sleeve, with the pale, pale hand
coming out of it waving horrifyingly in the current.
~~~
Read more about Cheryl at "The Cutthroat Business of Writing" on Writers & Other Animals
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