The next morning, well before the crack of dawn, we're up, rigged, and on
the road north. Craig's memory is better than his substance history would
suggest, and as the sky begins to lighten, we're standing at as pretty a
spot as a fisherman could want. We're just downstream of a waterfall
plunging the swollen creek over a few ledges before leveling off into a long
run. It's a great place for fish to hold before making the climb, and dawn
has barely broken when "Fish on!" is heard for the first time. A short
fight later & I've landed my first fish before the coffee is cold. Okay,
that was cool. Son hooks up and almost as quickly breaks off. I swap rods
with him so he can fish while I retie his rig. I'm about done when he's got
another hookup. I put down the rod & grab the video camera as he gets this
one into the submerged tall grass that used to be the shoreline.



Son breaks off again, & I swap rods again. So goes the morning for us. He
gets into a lot of fish; while I spend a lot of time "reloading". He's
catching fish; I'm tying knots. We're both enjoying it. Our guide/friend
Pat had a group of sports across the river in a pool at the base of the
falls so full of fish it's almost unethical. Later in the afternoon,
however, Pat gives us the "sign" from across the river letting us know they're
leaving; and the three of us hustle downriver, cross the bridge, & hoof it
back upstream to slide into the pool as they vacate. The hookups here are
more frequent than our old spot, and save a few quiet times, we're into a
lot of fish. At least once, we had a triple-header going as all three of us
had deep bends in our rods, and doubles were not unusual.



It was a common fight to have a fish run downstream and hook around the
curve under the stone bridge. With cautious haste, we could wade through
the rapids under the bridge & around the corner before getting broken off on
the stonework. Surviving that, the next hundred yards was relatively flat
water where we could land these beasts.



It was at this pool where I hooked what may have been the largest fish of my
life. Fighting and rolling in the currents above the bridge, the giant
teased me with a glimpse before taking off downstream. Clearly this was to
be a long contest, and each time I coaxed him near shore, he bolted again
with a reel-singing burst. Fifty yards, a hundred yards down. One
well-intentioned fellow tried to net it, but the fish was too full of energy
and off downstream again with me in pursuit. As it reached a second set of
rapids, another guy offered to net it. He took an awkward stab as the fish
tumbled over the rapids. He missed, the fish went past, he stumbled,
stepped on my line, and the fish was gone. I waved him a distant "don't
worry about it" wave; and that was that.



By dusk, we had all had our share of challenges and successes. Son did
great, my hands were cramping from tying on tippets, and I even managed to
shoot some video without submerging the camera. A good dinner, a lot of
laughs and lies, and we crashed for the night. By 6 the next morning, we
were on the road for home. One day; short but sweet. If I were to have
only one day to fish, this was the day.



Glad to be home,

Joe F.