Beyond the Bear by Dan Bigley, Debra McKinney

like hell, and make up lies.”
    Since moving to Alaska, Chinooks, or “kings,” had become my favorite among the state’s five salmon species. They’re finicky, aggressive, hard to outsmart, and harder to outfight. The Kenai River holds the world record for the largest king caught by rod and reel in fresh water at ninety-seven pounds, four ounces, which is about what a sixth-grader weighs and the upper end for a baby hippo. For me, there was no bigger thrill than playing a king, kind of like bull riding. But reds were a close second, appreciated for their attitude once hooked, for their rich flavor once filleted, marinated in Balsamic vinegar, minced garlic, fresh lemon, salt, and pepper and slapped on a grill. I loved the way they had this one-second delay after a hook had been set, followed by a turn of the head. I could imagine them going, “What the . . . Holy crap!” before going absolutely berserk, darting up river and down, this way and that, like a gazelle with a cheetah on its heels. I liked that reds made me work, and that just because I’d turned one’s head didn’t mean it would be coming home with me that night. I’d had them spit out my hooks in disgust. I’d had my lines “spooled” and my lines snapped. I’d seen others lose them after they were banked to the biggest con of all—a supposedly depleted fish suddenly leaping up and punching a fisherman in the face, then flip-flopping across the shore with stooped-over fishermen, arms outstretched, in hot pursuit. I’d seen reds make it back to the river, then swish away, their tails flipping the aquatic-vertebrate equivalent of an extended middle finger.
    On that day in July, a couple of hours out of Girdwood, John pulled off the Sterling Highway and onto a gravel side road near one of my favorite Kenai River fishing holes. While not exactly secret, it was definitely not on the tourist radar, and with tricky access, not a place someone would happen upon. It was one John had shown me, a cramped hole on the inside of a bend with a steep embankment on one side and room for no more than fifteen to fish. Once a fish was hooked, the biggest challenge was denying it access to the spurt of rapids immediately downriver that if allowed to be reached, would funnel it into a sayonara zone before a single profanity could be spewed. So it needed to be banked pronto, before it had the opportunity.
    The spot was a microcosm of the mob scene some thirty miles back up the highway at The Sanctuary. I had no idea combat fishing existed until a friend invited me along on a trip to the Russian River a day or two after I’d moved to Girdwood. We arrived around ten that midsummer night. I was floored. Here I was in a state more than twice the size of Texas with about a third as many inhabitants as Houston, and The Sanctuary looked more like rush hour than anything remotely resembling its name. For me, fishing was about being alone with the river, about stillness and meditation interrupted only by catching, not by some dude three feet off my right elbow discussing his preference in strip clubs with some other dude three feet off my left elbow. As turned off as I was, the mind-blowing number of fish had me salivating. It was the Serengeti of the freshwater world.
    After my initiation, I usually made an effort to ditch the throngs by hiking into the Russian River’s upper valley. Yet over time, as absurd as it was, I started getting a kick out of combat fishing. I grew to appreciate the social scene and sense of community, with the exception of the occasional dipshit, since cooperation was the only way chorus-line fishing could work without descending into a riverside mosh pit. I liked the etiquette of reeling in like your life depended on it and getting the hell out of the way the moment someone yelled, “Fish on!” I liked the synchronization, the casting and flipping of lines almost as a single entity: Ker-plunk, ker-plunk, ker-plunk, flip, flip, flip, ker-plunk,