Rivers, Pickups & Friends

By Sid Spurgeon

Tim Nicholas, Bob Farley, and Gary Jenkins grew up together in a small neighborhood in Pendleton, Oregon. Tim and Bob were eight years old when they met, and Gary came later, an annoying pest who was four years younger and wouldn't leave Tim and Bob alone. They finally grew tired of shooing him away.

They enrolled in college, got an education, and returned to their hometown because that's where they wanted to live. In Pendleton, they were adults and soon were adults with jobs, wives, and children. Each man worked hard and was respected by their community. They weren't famous or flashy, just honest and friendly.

Instead of being connected by sports as they were when they were kids, they were connected by steelhead fishing, the big brawling fish that swim from the Pacific Ocean into the Umatilla River to spawn.

Tim had four children; the youngest, Sarah, was his only daughter and was referred by her older brothers as the golden child. She outgrew her junior high snot-rag stage and was an energetic and intelligent high school student. Her personality could be summed up in one nineteenth-century term: sassy. She would become a US Forest Service smokejumper squad leader with important responsibilities that she handled very well.

When the three men reached retirement age, they still fished and camped. Life was good, until it wasn't. One of them had to be the first to die. Bob's story is sad, but he was surrounded by good friends and a compassionate wife. They made sure Bob wouldn't be alone in his final ordeal. Bob's story was not a test of friendship. Instead, it was an affirmation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781684988150

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Part 1

Part 2

Epilogue

About the Author

cover.jpg

Rivers, Pickups and Friends

Sid Spurgeon

Copyright © 2023 Sid Spurgeon

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

Photo was taken by Casey Willis

ISBN 978-1-68498-814-3 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68498-815-0 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Rivers, Pickups, and Friends is dedicated to those who encouraged me to write this book—

Cathy Spurgeon, Tim and Pennie Leachman, Tom Barber, John Nehl (yes, John Pendleton is the center of the universe), Bob and Sue Shields, Linda Hanson, and Nina Hoyer

Part 1

Set the Hook from Your Nuts Up

1998

As a young man, Tim Nicholas would have felt guilty standing knee-deep in a cold river on a Thursday afternoon. He certainly wouldn't be where he was right now if he were twenty-five, recently graduated from the University of Oregon, and a rookie jacket-and-tie member of the executive world of banking. Today, though, Tim wasn't twenty-five, he wasn't concerned with banking, and he didn't wear a jacket and tie. Most business supervisors and administrators, even the ones in rural Eastern Oregon, were probably working today. Tim wasn't. Instead, he was casting for steelhead into one of his favorite fishing holes in the Umatilla River. And, like most people who fish for steelhead, he was doing a lot more casting than catching. Even the good steelhead fisherman got shut out sometimes; it happened.

He had been on the river since eight fifteen that morning and not once did he believe that a steelhead was anywhere near his hook. That wasn't unusual. Steelhead fishing was far different from following around a Fish and Game Department stocking truck waiting for a crew of workers to dump several hundred small, barely legal-sized trout into the river then casting for fish that had been conditioned to eat during feeding time at the hatchery ponds. Conversely, steelhead are moody fish, not prone to take a hook in their mouths just because one drifts by and bumps them in the nose. Their indifference to the bait wasn't the biggest problem. Catching these fish was so difficult for the simple reason that there were not very many of them, especially in the Umatilla River. Even if you knew exactly where they should be and were an expert at catching them (not likely), you still had to live with the harsh truth that there was nobody home, even in the best hole in the river. Tim was standing right next to a wonderful fishing hole, one in which he'd caught dozens of fish, and there was nothing there except the bottom of the river.

Steelhead, a type of rainbow trout, lived in the Pacific Ocean most of their lives. They were hatched in a river, the Umatilla in this case; somehow they swam through several hydroelectric dams on the Columbia River, entered the ocean as temporary residents, then returned three years later when they felt nature's call to reproduce. Eventually they would arrive at a spawning bed to deposit eggs from the females and sperm from the males, and the cycle of life would begin again. Tim and his good friends, Bob Farley and Gary Jenkins, had given these fish an eerie respect, not quite on the same level as worship, but sometimes they were a little weird; spiritual maybe. They were, after all, fish, big brawling fish with an attitude, speedy with acrobatic genes, and they were very angry. Tim felt these fish were equipped with a significant clarity of the dangers of getting hooked and reeled in toward the riverbank. They wouldn't go out like some condemned man strapped to the executioner's table, paralyzed with fear, waiting for a lethal dose of toxins to finish his life. Steelhead were desperate to stay in their river and would not allow themselves to be reeled in without some sort of demon-possessed struggle to free themselves from the hook. They would not concede a dang thing to the guy standing on the riverbank just hanging on and hoping that was enough; it seldom was enough.

It generally took quite a bit of time to get one out of the water. Sometimes Tim watched fishing programs on television and thought that those wheezing Bubbas in bass boats, dragging those poor fish across the top of an Alabama farm pond while yelling, It's a big 'un, would get way too excited when they boated a three-pound bass. Try that with a steelhead and all you'll have left is a broken, dangling piece of fishing line.

What the steelhead were unable to recognize was that Tim wasn't going to murder them. In fact, he probably wouldn't even touch the fish. Once he got the flopping, splashing fish close enough, and after he guessed its approximate length, Tim would yank the hook out of its mouth with a pair of needle-nosed pliers, help it revive if necessary, then watch it return to the middle of the river.

The uphill dirt trail that led away from the Umatilla River was very familiar to Tim. He reckoned that he had walked down to the river, then back, about three hundred times. He also remembered that he was usually in a bigger hurry to get back to his pickup so he could drive to the next fishing hole. The quicker he got to the next hole, the quicker he could get his line back in the water. He had been fishing for steelhead for at least three decades, and the anticipation of catching one of these big rainbow trout never got old. It was no secret that Tim and fishermen like him, who spent hours and hours on Oregon rivers trying to catch these spectacular fish, were hopelessly addicted to everything a steelhead would do to fight its way off the hook.

Today, though, he was in less of a rush to drive to the next hole. He had promised himself that he would take a closer look at his surroundings and, like his daughter Sarah said, get some appreciation out of your surroundings for a change. You go to some beautiful spots. Check them out for something more than where you're going to make your next cast. Take a closer look at what's around you.

She was right, of course. He was often too serious about catching another one and found himself doing everything faster than he really needed to. She also reminded him that he shouldn't approach fishing, a recreation for most people, like those fat, fried-food-eating Bubbas you bitch about all the time. He wondered how his sixteen-year-old daughter got so smart. Then she told him, The only time you don't rush is when you have a fish on and you take plenty of time to get it to the bank. At least that's what you taught me. ‘Sarah, take your damn time,' as I recall.

This Thursday on the river, a day when most people with jobs were at work, would be the day that he promised his daughter and himself that he would slow down. So this time, as he walked up the trail, he stopped a time or two to look around. As he looked he made a commitment to look for things he missed the first three hundred times he had walked this trail. He even brought his camera down to the river just so he would stop to take photographs. Tim wasn't bad with the camera, but he never brought it to the riverbank because to him, it was just a nuisance, one more thing to tend to aside from catching fish. He knew this part of the river was scenic, he'd obviously seen it before, but what the heck, take a close look. He did and was a little disappointed that it looked the same. Of course it did; he had only seen it hundreds of times; he had it memorized by now. He got out his Nikon and snapped a few shots, stowed the camera back in its bag, and finished the hike back to his pickup. Maybe it was a fresh start or perhaps he was just fooling himself, but he did realize that Sarah was right about pumping the brakes. Where did she come up with lines like that, he wondered. She's only sixteen.

Tim was forty-nine years old, and he had spent a considerable amount of time those years fishing for steelhead on the Umatilla River and the North Fork of the John Day River, which was sixty miles south of Pendleton, whereas the Umatilla ran through town and eventually wound its way northwest to the Columbia. He was also aware of the fact that he had taken for granted his favorite places to fish for steelhead, and he'd done that because he was in such a hurry to get to the next hole. He didn't mind getting to the next spot fast, but he was also bothered by the idea that he had let his recreation, passion really, turn into something more like a competition. He'd spent much of his life competing in some form or another, and fishing trips ought to be something else. He was afraid that the guru who said, One must breathe the essence of life, or some such bullshit, might just be right after all. That was disheartening, but it was time to take a break from the inordinate amount of tension that came with what was supposed to be an enriching experience—life, just like the guru said.

It wasn't just the rush of getting to the next fishing hole; it was work, family, worry, finances, health, and all the rest. A shadowy figure was among them, pushing the fast-forward button. Sarah had told him pretty much the same thing: Dad, I'd like to watch you grow old, not dead. Where the hell was she getting all these ideas? That was perplexing to Tim, but he had to admit that his daughter was past the wise-assed conformity of her junior high years and could actually think for herself.

Of course these feelings didn't drop out of the Tree of Enlightenment all of a sudden. He'd suspected for quite a while that there was an edge about things that made him feel uncomfortable. By nature, he was independent and wasn't one to get pulled along without putting up some resistance, so maybe it was time to look at the world differently. He didn't have to be an artist or anything, but it would be a calming change to approach his life more quietly and with greater appreciation for what was out there. The river should have been a serene presence for him. He may have known that all along. He doubted this was going to be a major disruptive transition, but he was forty-nine and he recognized his days seemed to be speeding up. Life was speeding up just because he was getting closer and closer to being dead. Tim was in very good health, but not all his friends could make the same claim. He had lived through the adolescent arrogance that he was immortal and now was completely aware that anything could happen at any time to anybody. He wasn't frightened by that, but it was certainly a reminder that took some of the glitter out of the world.

He had read novels about how people were able to feel one with their environment, but he wasn't about to use those words even though he knew it could certainly happen. He didn't believe too much in the mysteries of unifying his spirit with a river and its accompanying vegetation, but he wasn't intolerant and stupid either. He had plenty of reasons to believe that he could adjust enough to take in life's natural pleasures. This wasn't Manifest Destiny, and he didn't have to conquer and control anything. He was good at getting to the core of issues, and this wouldn't be much different from solving any other problem. One thing he was sure of—he had spent too much energy fretting over life's necessities, like earning a living and managing several banks. Those became a chore, bothersome, mandatory, and annoying.

The climb to his pickup wasn't made any easier by the fact that he wore a pair of six-year-old hip waders that were worn to near destruction. The soles had very little tread and made the soles of the waders slick and without much traction. The rest of the waders were covered with patches and rubbery dabs and slabs of Shoe-Goo smeared over barbed wire slashes. No matter how carefully he crossed over barbed wire fences, some part of one of his waders generally got stabbed and torn. Tim was very picky about his fishing gear as a rule. He purchased very sturdy and expensive rods and reels, but he couldn't part with a good pair of hip waders, although these were not too dang good anymore. But, better yet, and most important of all, they were lucky, and Tim was superstitious. That had everything to do with his years as a college baseball player. The mantra that he and his teammate practiced was You don't have to be good if you have superstitions. Of course no one said that out loud; you didn't want to jinx yourself. If something worked for you, don't change, and if this particular pair of waders needed a patch or two, then patch 'em. They kept the water out.

Realistically, he doubted that the waders had anything to do with whether or not he caught a steelhead, but there was no reason to take a chance. His nearly dead waders were an uncomplimentary contrast with the rest of his fishing gear, but they often matched well with his faded and stained pair of Carhartts and, under his flannel shirt, a hooded sweatshirt. Tim's Carhartts had once been tan, but after cutting and splitting several cords of firewood, hunting for pheasants, fishing trips, and multiple washings, his heavy-duty, roomy pants with lots of pockets had faded to off-white and possibly may have been sorrier than his waders. He didn't look like a vagrant, but he wasn't dressed for the prom either. No one would confuse him with a Field & Stream fly-fishing model dressed in the newest outdoor fashion. Those guys were usually standing in a pristine mountain stream looking especially rugged and unshaven, wearing their washed and ironed Dockers.

To add to his fashion statement, which screamed, I bought everything I own from a Salvation Army truck that was on its way to the dump to toss out things people refused to buy, was another incongruent part of his complete fishing attire: a colorful new baseball hat. Of course the hat he had on and the several others he owned were all New Eras, the Cadillac of baseball hats. They were not cheap. Each hat was of a different minor league baseball team or college team. No one knew where these teams were, and no one could understand why Tim would wear a Tulane or Wake Forest baseball hat or perhaps a Savannah Sand Gnats minor league hat. Those places were nearly three thousand miles from Pendleton, Oregon. His baseball hats were his only concession to style and what was trendy at the time. Nice baseball hats looked good and made one a better steelhead fisherman.

When he reached his pickup, he wasn't sure if the slower pace and photo ops had really made much difference. Of course, it was early. Give it some time, he said to himself. However, the big black four-wheel drive Ford pickup sitting in front of him was something he could seriously appreciate. Some would consider that the three-quarter-ton extended cab Ford was almost a menacing presence, an unnecessary waste of gasoline, a hazard to everyone on the road, but in Tim's mind it was a splendid work of art. One day, he would like to drive it back to the Ford assembly plant and personally thank them for putting together one of mankind's finest creations. He also sensed that the combination of his pickup, the Umatilla River, and the prospect of hooking a steelhead were indications that there were good things ahead. He may have sensed that he would do well at his next stop, but he also knew that sensing something wonderful was a fairy tale. Still, it was good to be optimistic.

He took an extralong step up into the Ford, got behind the wheel, and ignited the 460-cubic-inch engine. The phrase roared to life was too cliché to describe the guttural sound that penetrated the quiet of the day, but it would work as soon as Tim thought of another description. Whatever you wanted to call it, the beautiful noise of the big Ford was one macho treat. It sank deeply into the inner beast of man—woman too if you wanted to be inclusive.

Tim liked the feeling of solitude he got sitting in the cab of his pickup, especially when he was on the road during steelhead season. Since the Department of Fish and Wildlife turned the Umatilla into a catch-and-release stream, very few people fished on this stretch of the river. That was fine with him. A few years before the catch-and-release regulations, Tim had contemplated spreading rumors about a vast toxic spill in the river that was killing off fish left and right, in an effort to keep people away from his river and his fish. The Fish and Game people had unintentionally granted his wish, but they didn't poison the river. They just made a rule that made fish eaters go to the grocery store for farm-raised salmon. The exception to all this was that the Indian Reservation had begun a hatchery program and was putting game fish into the river. Hatchery fish were marked by a clipped adipose fin, and in order to keep a steelhead that had begun life in a fish hatchery, one had to belong to the tribe. Rumors were circulating that the Indians would allow people, off the rez, to keep one steelhead a day and only three in a season, but white people could not fish for salmon or steelhead on the reservation, and there were some damn good holes out there. That gave Tim the river to himself most of the time, and he took advantage of that opportunity every time he had a chance. Today, he was by himself again, and that was just fine.

He turned around the pickup and headed back down the road toward another hole that was often productive. He liked this part of the gravel road. It was straight, and compared to some of the roads he traveled while searching for fishing holes, it was also fairly smooth. That meant he could travel a bit faster than normal, but this time, he drove slower so he could pull off the road and stop at an old, well-used campsite. The site itself was about fifty yards off the road, and the Ford easily rolled up to the clearing. Tim got out, walked to the back of the pickup, and released the tailgate. The tailgate banged into place, providing Tim with a chair of sorts. It was, at least, a place to sit.

He hoisted himself onto the tailgate. From his seat, he had a perfect vantage point of the river valley. He could see for miles, which was one of the main reasons he liked Eastern Oregon so much. There weren't a bunch of damn trees to block the view of perfection, brown grass, faded yellow grass, sagebrush, and rolling hills. All that beautiful brown was topped off by some of the finest rimrock formations in Oregon.

Unlike most Oregon steelhead rivers, the Umatilla was on the east side of the state. That meant it wasn't surrounded by Douglas firs, river brush, and decaying forest matter. It all had a smell he could never get accustomed to when he fished the coastal streams surrounded by live trees, dead trees on the ground, and the omnipresent western Oregon moss and fern show. The Umatilla was carving its way through ranchland, farms, and a good amount of sagebrush. When prospective tourists investigate Oregon for a nice summer vacation, they don't often consider Eastern Oregon, the dry side of the state. Eastern Oregon does not help conjure up visions of lush greenery located smack-dab in the middle of paradise. This part of Oregon looked more like an old John Wayne Western where the Duke was out chasing Comanches across America's badlands. Tim, and those who were close to him, liked it that way. The expanse of the area, the colors mostly browns, tans, and faded pale yellows, were what, at least in his way of thinking, made the Umatilla River a significant part of his life. He liked the fact that he could see for miles and, because it was Eastern Oregon, there weren't very many people to obstruct the view or make a lot of uncalled-for human noises.

Once again, he looked out to the river. He'd done this multiple times before, sitting on the tailgate washing down a sandwich with a can of Diet Coke, and absorbed just what real quiet sounded like, an oxymoron of course, but it made good sense to him. He wanted today to be different, but he wasn't too sure; maybe it was already perfect—maybe he hadn't noticed the perfection until today, but he was enrapt by the solitude. This wasn't the first time he noticed. He was generally a good noticer, but just maybe the entire scene and its quiet peace were penetrating and he was actually feeling the place. Nah, it was too early for that. He had to be imagining that, but still….

The river was a mile or so away from where he was sitting. To see it, he had to look across a field of sagebrush. To him, sagebrush was just there, something he'd seen his entire life, and it never registered anything special in his mind other than, well, sagebrush. And he feared that no matter how hard he tried to capture the good vibes of the pale green flora, it was still merely sagebrush; dull actually. He supposed that God had gotten bored when he got around to sagebrush. Either that or God started by tossing a bunch of pretty drab vegetation out there before moving on to create some nifty colorful plants and animals.

On the other side of the field of sagebrush was the Umatilla River. It went where it wanted; a curve here, a straight stretch there, never really too wide or too deep. Tim could think of few things that he liked better than this river, which could flood when the snow melted too fast, like the Nile, or nearly dry up during the hot summers that Pendleton experienced. On the opposite side of the river, the fields were smaller, and they abutted some steep rolling hills. Some people considered them mountains; they weren't, but they were steep, sparsely vegetated hills. They weren't the Alps; however, they were abrupt and rose in a hurry. As Tim looked out on them today, he tried to make something artistic in his mind with all the faded browns he was looking at. Of course, he failed, but it did cause him to wonder, Just how do artists do that?

The hills and mountains in Eastern Oregon were unique and not what out-of-staters expected when they drove through. Every time Tim looked at these hills, he thought back more than thirty years when a sportswriter from a Portland newspaper, the Oregonian, described these hills. Tim's high school football team had just methodically demolished a very good team from the Portland Metro area. The city team had some talented and very large football players, but when they showed up for a state quarter-final football game played in the Round Up grounds, totally foreign territory for Portland kids, they were badly outplayed and lost in a lopsided game. The next day, the Portland paper described the barren hills of Eastern Oregon, a perfect place for the Buckaroos from Pendleton to ambush the big city boys. The paper was right, it was a cow killing, and the Pendleton kids enjoyed every second of it.

The hills weren't actually barren, but they were steep, and there were rimrocks. Rimrocks were one of Tim's favorites. They were giant steps of basalt rock that angled their way to the top of each hill. People in Eastern Oregon continuously argued over the whereabouts of the best rimrocks. Of course, Tim thought they were right here along the Umatilla River, but other people swore the best rimrocks could be found along the North Fork of the John Day River, a little over sixty miles south of town. Further east, in Malhuer County, some people even referred to themselves as rimrock savages. Tim had spent time there and couldn't find a single good rimrock anywhere; he wondered, where in the hell did that nickname originate? Tim knew, as did everyone else, that these were no-win arguments. He preferred to stay out of them, but in his own mind, he was looking at the best rimrocks in Oregon. He also watched the National Geographic channel on TV, where he saw the incredible rimrocks all over the Holy Land. It was the clear winner.

Sarah was right, and Tim knew it. He knew that he would probably never see his river and his hills with the artistic richness they deserved. He could, though, slow his own life down. With that thought in mind, he got off the tailgate, slammed it shut, and walked up to the driver's door. Before he climbed into the cab, he took one more look at the river. He saw the same fishing holes and the same rimrocks. They hadn't changed, and neither had he, but he was smart enough to recognize that some changes in his life's patterns were important. His life needed to be calmer, slower, and quieter.

That Tim was fishing on a Thursday afternoon wasn't all that unusual anymore. But the fact that he fished without guilt was a fairly recent phenomenon. He was dead serious and highly responsible about his job. He was having trouble getting there, but it didn't bother him like it would have five or six years earlier. He even liked his work and the people he worked with. Not everyone could say that. His infrequent absences at the bank weren't like skipping high school classes, which he had done with regularity. For him, high school was a mind-deadening experience. He figured that statistically speaking, he had about twenty-five or thirty years left before he was either dead, suffering from dementia, or his tired old broken-down body was calling it quits. He hoped not. His dad was still healthy and active. It was possible that he had a good share of his father's genetic makeup. That would work. The remaining years didn't seem like they should be a time of worry, rush, exhaustion, and schedules.

He started the Ford and headed for another fishing hole. It was less than a mile from his stop to eat a sandwich and drink a Diet Coke. The road was more crooked now and only a few yards from the river. Tim pulled off to the shoulder and examined the fishing hole. It was one of the more productive spots on the river, and this time of the year, with good water conditions, there ought to be fish. Tim took a worn path down to the river. The walk was shorter, and he was more concerned with catching fish than he was with the poetry of the moment. Steelhead fishing was his passion. Most people did not understand or care about the attraction of hooking an eight-pound steelhead and chasing the wild fish up and down the river. He was happy about that; it meant fewer people on the river. Even the people who liked to catch big fish often wouldn't put in the necessary hours to catch a steelhead. The scarcity of these fish plus the cold November weather kept most people at home.

This particular hole was a pretty easy read. He and his friends had named it the Cliff Hole because, obviously, to get to the hole it was necessary to climb down a cliff, but the dirt path down was wide, which mitigated the danger of going over the edge, an unpleasant thought. The river narrowed into a deep but relatively fast riffle. It didn't give the fish a lot of room; they had to get through the narrow spot to eventually swim to their spawning beds. The deep riffle also gave them a place to slow down, even stop, so they could rest after they had worked their way through some serious rapids. The resting place was where the fish should be. It was a hole that Tim knew well; he wouldn't have to spend much time there. The riffle was about twenty yards long, and Tim stepped over river rocks to get to the top section of the hole, the top section being where the riffle started.

Once there, he stood on a large flat rock and began to cast. He cast his weighted bait just beyond the riffle and upstream a bit. This allowed the river's current to take the bait directly into the steelhead's resting spot. That is, if there was a fish to be had. The weighted bait would, if it all worked correctly, bounce along the bottom of the river where a steelhead just might be resting. At least that was the accepted theory of steelhead fishing: bounce your bait on the bottom of the river right where the fish were supposed to be. Quite often, this method could be effective, only if there were fish in the hole that were in the mood to cooperate. The problem was the bottom of the river. It was rocky, like almost all river bottoms. Rocks could be a good thing; they would slow down a strong current, and the fish would hang behind a big rock to rest. However, rocks caused snags. Tim used a heavy lead weight to ensure that his bait would get to where the fish were, but, from time to time, the river's current would force the bait to bury itself and firmly lodge under a rock. To Tim and those like him who spent several hours on the river, these hang-ups—snags—were an inconvenience. You would either jerk the hook out from under the submerged rock or, more often than not, you would break off your hook, leader, bait, and lead weight. Experienced steelheaders were always prepared for that and brought lots of extra gear. Retying, or rerigging, was a nuisance but not a deterrent for people who were serious about steelhead fishing.

Casting for steelhead did not require an amazing amount of expertise. Anyone who took half an hour to learn and practice casting with a spinning reel would be ready for the big-time. Basically, just put the hook in front of the fish—close in front actually. Steelhead were notorious for not swimming too far to chase down a bait. They were sullen really, and getting them to put a steel hook in their mouth was tricky. Tim figured correctly that it would take several casts, fifteen or more, to locate a fish that was willing to take a shot at his bait.

Steelhead fishermen never knew which cast would be the one that a fish might decide to take, so most of them were alert to what their bait was doing as it bounced along the bottom of the river. These fish normally didn't attack a hook but merely put the bait in their mouths and maybe not even bite down, so to the fisherman, a steelhead bite was often only a subtle difference in the way the bait felt through the rod back to the fisherman. A steelhead bite, more often than not, felt like the bottom. A lot of new steelheaders were unable to consistently discern between a bite and a rock. Many experienced steelheaders, including Tim, were fooled by these fish. Sometimes a fish would just appear out of nowhere, securely hooked, and Tim, and plenty of others, didn't feel a single thing until the fish began to move in an agitated fashion. The phrase many people used was an old one, but it made a lot of sense. They didn't know they had a fish until the shit hit the fan.

Of course, a good fisherman would never admit that he didn't feel a thing, but it was true. They didn't have a clue, but they were adept at covering their surprise when a fish actually caught itself. That happened to Tim, the old pro, more than a couple of times, and he never revealed his astonishment to anyone. Instead he'd say something like, That sonofabitch hit my hook like a freight train. Or, even better, he would act like he knew exactly what had happened and would comment on how soft the fish had taken the hook. To make himself sound more heroic, he would add, If I didn't know what I was doing I would have never caught that fish. That would bring his fishing partners, Farley and Jenkins, untold amounts of amusement. Sure, Tim, that's exactly the way it happened.

Tim did not always pay strict attention to what was going on at the other end of his fishing rod. He loved to steelhead fish, but there were several times a day that the repetition of casting and not catching bored him. He could not maintain a state of total awareness (the shrinks call it mindfulness now) all the time. To relieve the tedious recurrence of going without a bite, cast after cast, he daydreamed. He held great faith in his ability to recognize a steelhead bite in time to break the spell of the daydream and slam his hook into the fish's jaw. He was quite good at detecting the almost imperceptible difference between a rock and a fish, so he didn't burden himself thinking that he might miss one.

Tim had probably cast into this hole ten or twelve times on this day when he felt a gentle tug on his line. This bite, like almost all steelhead bites, was a contradiction to what was about to happen next. From the feel of things, it only made sense to think, Damn this is a tiny little trout, but it wasn't. Tim set the hook. Setting the hook on a steelhead means to throw your rod tip back over your head as fast and as hard as you can. It's a violent action of great urgency. One of his fishing partners, Gary Jenkins, once described it as trying to jerk the fish right off the bottom of the river in one motion. His other fishing pal, Bob Farley, had a more colorful and earthy take on it. He said, you had to set your hook from your nuts up. Farley could always paint a clear, direct verbal picture without a hint of equivocation. It wasn't literary brilliance, but he made his point.

One thing that Tim had a tendency to boast about was his talent for setting the hook into a steelhead's mouth. He could bring his rod tip up on a fish as good as anyone he'd ever seen. Even Farley, a big strong man, was impressed, and he, Farley, wasn't too bad of a hook setter himself. For Tim, the fish was normally hooked, but in some cases the leader broke. That generally meant that the fish had zigged when Tim had zagged. As violent an action as it was, a big hook set rarely broke the line. It was, however, a sick feeling when it did. This time, the hook penetrated into the side of the fish's mouth, and things were about to heat up.

Sometimes there were angry debates about what the best fighting freshwater fish in North America was. The southern Bubbas love their bass, but their diet of fried food and Dr