The bobber swims in circles for at least five seconds and I scream “SET!” a minimum of eighty times. Eventually, he finds it in his heart to sweep that big ol’ fly pole upwards and stretch that silly plastic line. There is twitching and headshaking. Long deliberate runs circle around the pool and I stifle the whisper that is pinballing in my brain “bigfuckingbrowntrout”. Saying such a thing out loud while staring hard at tense monofilament slicing green ether will automatically turn whatever is on the other end into an asshooked whitefish; such is the evil nature of river alchemy.

“He’s pullin on me pretty good”

“Just keep that line tight”

He doesn’t.

“Larry go git yer camera out I wanna get a picture of this fish”

He turns his attention away from the task at hand to call to his partner in the front of the boat. The line goes completely flaccid as the fish swims towards us. I dig the right oar as hard as I can, spin the ass end of the boat into the current and get his rod bent again.

“Keep the line tight!”

Shit. Ass. Whore.

You can’t call for the camera while the fish is still swimming, you might as well cut the line with your pocketknife. I hope it is the white-dog. It can’t be, not with those oil-rig headshakes. It has to be, any decent trout would have easily spit that barbless hook by now. We have to land this fish. We’re never going to land this fish.

“You seen him yet Larry? I ain’t seen nothing yet, kinda fights like a croaker”

His attention is once again severed from the fish, the first we’ve actually hooked all day,  and again the line goes utterly slack as it swim slowly and deliberately toward us.

Another violent oar-dig and Larry almost goes Greg Louganis over the side as he’s  snapping pictures of water hiding unseen scales and fins and, shit what is this anyway. Please, please don’t let this be a snagged sucker. There’s no way this is a trout.

“TIGHT LINE!”

I am all nerves and coiled spring. I am osprey staring into the green. We are gaining ground and I can see the bobber again. Was that a flash? Another run, shorter this time, he’s about done. Is that him, am I imagining it or can I actually…

“It’s a toad!”

Confirmation. No green back, no translucent fins, no pig snout. Solid brown trout hooked in the mouth.

“Don’t bring your fly line… the plastic line… into the rod tip.”

“Huh?”

It’s too late. The yellow balloon is now jammed into the top guide. The fish has come to the bow and his head is on the way up, I’ve got one shot. I am a pneumatic piston. Just as I fire the net toward the slab of gold, he throws his head out into the current and parts the line. Instead of a shower of water and an empty bag, which is what I’m expecting, the fish is in the net. I have won the lottery, I have dipnetted a 20+ inch brownie, we have absolutely no right to have caught it. It doesn’t hit the 2 foot mark like I expect but weighs in close to 5 pounds.

“Is this good?”

It’s his first day holding a fly rod, his first day on a Montana stream. They are on a family vacation to Yellowstone from Florida and decided to get a half-day guided trip. This is the first trout he’s ever caught. After that fish all we can manage to land is a 5 inch rainbow. At the end of the day, they’re disappointed. I suppose it all depends on your definition of good.

It’s been a long week, and I’m not sure where to start. Hell, I’m not even sure if I can properly convey an adequate sense of order to an insane week of fishing…

Maybe, if we were sitting in a dive bar somewhere and throwing back 24oz PBR’s, I could try to set a narrative about an awesome river system with ‘bows as big as your leg. With the broader range of emotive capability inherent in the spoken word, I might possibly get you to feel the fluttery, hyperventilating sensations that develop when a group of these large fish start busting smolt right in front of you on a sunny day. With the proper facial expressions and gesticulations, I might also be able to place you waist-deep in the flow, watching the birds working upstream, knowing that if you time it right, you just might have a shot at one of these fish.

After the second or third beer, I might find the particular word or phrase that would do justice to the strange, tunnel-vision feeling of swinging into grease so fishy that it practically glows. With any luck, I could probably describe the time-erasing sensation that you feel when you are going through a piece of big-fish water, knowing that each and every moment, all hell could break loose.

About beer number four, I could probably get something across about the wind, about my newfound love for the bug-removing wind, and my new respect for the cack-handed snap. I could probably set the stage for the two am stumble to the cabin door, fully clothed against the bugs, not quite ready for the sprint to the outhouse. By beer number four, I think I could have a pretty good shot at describing the zoned-out, goofy-ass mood that set in around day three, and the punch-drunk, rummy shamble through the holes on day five.

With  beers five and six, I might take a stab at the spare beauty of the place. This might not go over well, but I would probably, with the appropriate hand motions, show the bizarre path taken by the sun on its daily joyride around the horizon. I could probably get you to appreciate the zen simplicity that is tundra, bonsai for giants. We would probably rehash a bit about the wind, the bugs, and the huge fish, but that’s OK, they are an intrinsic part of the desolate, simple, and remote charm of the place.

After beer seven, it’s anybody’s guess. The conversation would start to deteriorate a bit, and in an odd sort of fashion, we might find ourselves at an impasse of sorts, an inability on the part of the speaker to properly manipulate the language in such a fashion as to convey cogent thought. Then we would be on the level we are now, the level of trying to thread an experience together that does not lend itself well to linear translation on the written page. Much like the old joke about dancing to architecture, the idea of typing about a trip like this is rather humorous because in the end, it comes down to a simple fact, a common phrase.

You just had to be there.

Every year, millions of sockeye salmon come back to the rivers of Bristol Bay to spawn and die. When the eggs deposited by last year’s adult finally hatch and the young sockeye alevins swim up out of the gravel, they swim into the relative comfort and safety of their large feeder lake. They will spend up to 3 years in this lake, ostensibly to eat the rich freshwater zooplankton and grow into healthy smolts, but I think there is another reason…

I think they are scared out of their little finny gourds by some of the trout that happen to be in the river between their cozy lake and the big blue sea.

In 3 days, I get to test that theory.

Starting June 8th at 12:01 am, I get 89 hours in the greasy flows of what is arguably the world’s greatest wild rainbow trout river, huckin’ everything from itty-bitty smolt imitations to 8-inch monstrosities that would scare the bejeezus out of lesser trout. 89 hours with a case of beer, a 12-pack of ramen, a boat, and no lodge curfew. 89 hours to get all up in the sock drawer of this river, sniffin’ the air and lickin’ rocks, trying to figure out what makes these beautiful fish tick.

I got a case of gear that would make a diva blush, more flies than a Mexican dump, a whole golf-bag fulla rods, an extra set of waders in case I pee myself in excitement, and a brand new box of baby wipes.

Game time, fellas. Pins and needles until Monday morning.