This is a tale of two fishermen—and their timeless lesson, to boot.
The first of them was a biologist: tall, strapping, and a keen student of all fish. An angler, through and through. There was hardly a species in his homeland that hadn’t come to hand at one time or another.
His sidekick was a writer: short and pale, hapless and clueless. He had little to offer the expedition. But he could hold a rod with a firm grasp, should his leader become weary in his piscine conquest.
Having traveled thousands of miles, white sturgeon of the Columbia River were to be their quarry. Growing to ten feet and more, the ancient finned beasts would surely prove a match for the scientist’s wits and might.
At dawn the pair left the dock with their captain, known across the land only as Touché. The inhabitants of the gorge all said he was the best from Bonneville to McNary. With decades under his belt, he could think like a sturgeon—and smelled of similar essence.
His boat, the Girly, was equally storied. Stout and shiny, she’d seen him through rough waters and even rougher battles with sturgeon.
Somewhere in the middle of the river, the old man throttled his engine. There, in the shadow of Mount Hood, he grabbed a rod and tossed an offering of squid overboard. Next went a whole fish that could have fed a family of six.
At seeing bait larger than anything he’d caught in the previous year, the writer broke out in a cold sweat.
Fortunately, the biologist was to handle the first fish, as this adventure had been his idea. So, when the waters roiled and the first reel screamed, he hopped to the deck and muscled it to the boat. Over the side it came, glistening and majestic.
“Just a four footer,” said Touché as he unhooked it. “We’ll find something bigger.”
His confident tone was both inspiring and intimidating to the writer, who was quite unsure whether such a fish would force him into an impromptu swim, should he find himself tangling with one. It didn’t take long to find out.
“About the same as the last one,” came the estimate, when the writer hoisted his for pictures a little while later.
The intrepid angler observed aloud that they were tied, and proposed a wager on the largest fish between them. Feeling exhilarated and quite relieved, his sidekick took that bet and regretted it soon after.
“Looks like six and a half,” said their guide. That fish was too large to bring aboard, so the scientist jumped into the water to pose with it after wresting it from the depths.
Trying his best to fit such a giant into the viewfinder, the writer snapped photos. Foot after foot of pure, hard muscle caused him again to wipe his brow. All the same, he hoped to best it.
An hour later, he had his chance. Another shark-shaped torpedo throbbed on the end of the line as he cranked and heaved. It raced from one side of the river to the other, as though playing with him.
The writer’s arm began to burn as minutes ticked by. His back and legs soon followed suit, but surely, he thought, it would be worth the struggle.
“Not quite seven. I think that one’s six and a half, too,” pronounced the captain upon first sight.
And that’s where things stood at the end of the first day: an agonizing tie.
The next morning, the river was in a new mood. Upon seeing the way it swelled and swarmed, Touché proclaimed it would be a big fish day. It was no less than prophecy.
The writer brought up a seven footer. Then his friend conjured one that added half a foot.
The boat began to pitch and roll. Other anglers rode white-peaked waves back to the safety of the launch. Touché struggled to maintain a steady orientation with his boat, but was resolved that they break ten feet.
Upon setting the hook into the next candidate, the writer thought he might make that mark. Determined not to let it get away, he held fast as the colossus peeled line from the reel.
The Girly rose and fell violently. The crests of the waves threatened to wash the boat’s occupants overboard. In their troughs, the great mountain disappeared from view entirely.
At long last, a white form appeared in the deep blue. The captain eased it to the starboard side and loosed it again.
“A good eight feet,” he said.
With only a short time left in their trip, the writer felt good about his chances. But he knew that even in the tempest, there wasn’t a fish in that river the biologist couldn’t tame.
As they waited for the next bite, the captain regaled his guests with tales from up and down the river. Colorful characters with names like Buddy, Scotty, and Ugly Mike came to life with his masterful storytelling.
“So you know what he did? He went to the doctor and said—”
The old man stopped mid-sentence and simply pointed to the rod on the port side. A twitch turned to a tremble. That tremble became a bob. Then that rod curled over and met the water.
Touché’s eyes grew wide. “Ho-ho! This is the big one we’ve been waiting for!”
The sad scribe knew he’d been beat. The master angler winked to him over his shoulder as he plucked the rod from its holder and heaved.
That reel screamed once again as miles of line disappeared from the spool. Waves whipped up on wind that raged harder than ever. Touché fired the motor, as he knew there would be no other way of catching up to the headstrong leviathan.
Then, all at once, the line went slack and the mighty Columbia fell dead calm.
Our hero reeled frantically, hoping the fish had turned toward the boat, but only recovered a bare hook.
The captain was all but speechless. Knowing of the bet, he eventually turned to the writer and patted him on the shoulder.
“You know what they say—better to be lucky than good.”
Thousands of anglers try their luck annually in the Columbia River gorge. To join their ranks and learn how much of this story is true, call Touché at Fly By Nyte Guide Service. If you want him to take you seriously, befriend his dog, Girly, and don’t mention my name.
Roy Heilman is an outdoorsman, writer, and ethnic Minnesotan. His adventures take him all over the map, but he’s always home at neveragoosechase.com.