The moment of truth arrives as Sapsuk
River head guide Mike Flynn is poised to net
Michael Bowsher’s big Chinook salmon.
ing display of pure power; my line instantly
melted off the reel as if it had been set on free
spool. A giant rooster tail of spray, accompa-
nied by sounds of ripping Dacron backing
slicing through the water, followed the swiftly
vanishing fish.
All I could do was stand there, gripping
the bucking rod with mouth agape, momen-
tarily forgetting to breathe. My line hand ab-
sently drifted down to the frame of the wildly
whirring fly reel, and I suddenly jerked it
back in dismay, as the friction-generated heat
from the drag scorched me like a red-hot coal.
With over 200 yards of line out in the
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river, the fish finally decided to stop at the
very end of the pool, just before the current
broke into the faster water below. The long
rod was deeply bent all the way to the grip,
and each of her ponderous head shakes
generated extreme anxiety about the hook
coming undone. A standoff ensued, during
which neither of us relaxed nor gave quarter
as the stretched line hummed in the heavy
flows. For a while, I was beset by despair-
ing thoughts of losing this salmon, until the
heavy pressure from my tackle finally began
to coax her back upstream, one slow reel
crank at a time.
During the long minutes that followed,
I gained but then lost line repeatedly, as the
struggle continued; at one point in the fight,
the chinook made another wild, unstoppable
dash back down to the tailout — a display of
defiant determination pitted against modern
angling technology. Far below me, she rose to
the surface, her twisting body and thrashing
tail throwing fountains that glinted in the
morning light, an awe-inspiring, magnificent
sight indeed.
Eventually, my running line and then
the Skagit head emerged and were wound
back onto the spool, as the salmon’s strength