on—designs that were labeled “mediocre at best” by my fishing partners. I convinced Brody to switch flies. I recommended a purple fly I was very fond of. Instead he chose a bright pink and white tie, snapping it into his swivel. Kent, who was tired of the olives, blacks, oranges and yellows he had been throwing all morning asked for one of the “purps.” I obliged with a smile, knowing he was skeptical but desperate. We ceded the other boat the first set of logs and be-gan pushing to the end of the structure. As soon as we hit the middle of the river, their boat erupted behind us. We turned to look—violent thrashes and an 11-weight bent to the cork. Even from a hundred yards away we could tell this was no hammer handle. Kent buried the hook into the fish as he pulled away from the logs. The boat worked as a team, pressuring the fish from differ-ent directions to avoid the snags extending from the logjam. The fish took several sprints for every snag and boulder within 50 feet of the boat. After a few profane exchanges, all 45 inches of mythical beast were scooped into the net. We took photos and gave a quick moment of thanks to the river gods. As the prehistoric monster was released, it swam close to the surface, his dorsal and tail mocking us as if waving a middle finger. Later that night we found refuge in a massive spread of smoked brisket, pulled pork, hush puppies, slaw and baked beans, sourced from a shack down the road dubbed “Down South.” We spent the next few hours in a circle surrounding a pile of hair, tubing, feathers and hooks. We passed around a quart jar of liquid that would have passed for water aside from the bubbles and the lightning-like burn. The rain muff led our moans in the bitter morning when the alarm rang. I logged on to the streamf low graph. The river had gone from 4,800 CFS to 23,000 overnight. At the boat launch the water was the color and consistency of a cardboard box. As if these fish weren’t hard enough to catch already, now we’d have to deal with the impossible opacity of sludge. The f low ripped at a speed that would make our heaviest sinking line perform like a f loater. I’m not sure if we can all be classified as mentally ill, but we went fishing. We had traveled 1,500 miles to fish for these toothy bastards and no way were we going to throw in the towel. The next three days consisted of cast after cast, strip after strip and f ly change after f ly change—all for nothing. Had we had a follow from a fish, we wouldn’t have known. Each hour that passed marked another score for our opponent. As we approached the last mile on the final day, Brody asked for a “purp.” After 30 casts, he stripped his fly to within an oar’s length. Just as the collection of feathers stopped dead and undulated back to life, it vanished into a row of teeth. THE FLYFISH JOURNAL 085
The Flyfish Journal Volume Eight, Issue Two: Page 85
