Beyond the Bear by Dan Bigley, Debra McKinney Page A

ker-plunk, ker-plunk, flip, flip, flip, all down the line, the same motion, the same rhythm, like the fishermen’s version of the stadium wave.
    Bears could crash the party at any moment. We all knew that. But given the hordes and close proximity, what worried me most was catching a bullet if some fisherman got spooked and started blasting. What was more likely was catching a wayward hook, since reds are famous for spitting them out, sending them flying backward, return-to-sender style, and keeping the local medical community busy removing them from various parts of angler anatomy. Not to mention the kind of damage a weight can do slamming into an eye. Emergency room personnel at Central Peninsula Hospital in Soldotna remove something like seventy-five fishhooks a year, some years closer to one hundred, from the cheeks, chins, noses, elbows, and eyebrows of anglers fishing various rivers along the Kenai Peninsula. I heard from a Cooper Landing emergency medical technician that one unfortunate was taking a leak when he caught one in his privates.
    South of the madness, John and I climbed into our waders and loaded up our gear. With Maya trotting on ahead, we hiked the short distance from the car to a bluff, got down on our butts, dangled our feet over the edge, launched off, dropped onto a trail, and made our way down the steep, narrow path while leaning our shoulders into the embankment, steadying ourselves with our hands as we went. At the bottom, we set down our rods, pulled off our packs, and sat leaning against the embankment to wait our turn. In the meantime, we scoped out stringers for a fishing report, and it looked promising. When the first opening came up, John went for it, while I remained on the lookout for the next potential slot to drop into. After about fifteen minutes, another angler reeled in his line and gathered up his gear.
    “Mind if I jump in there?” I asked. He didn’t, so I did. My line ready, the drag set fairly tight to accommodate the current, I slid into his spot and waded in up to my knees. I glanced upriver, then down, taking note of the rhythm of those on either side of me. I merged into the cadence, casting in synch with the others to the ten o’clock position, then slowly pivoting as my line drifted downriver anchored by just the right amount of weight to keep my sinker skipping along the bottom, my coho fly dancing a few inches above, but not so much weight for it to get wedged between rocks. I felt the subtle bounce, bounce, bounce as it hopscotched along. When my rod reached two o’clock, I flipped the line fly-fishing fashion, pulling several feet free, then cast back upriver to ten o’clock. Ker-plunk, bounce, bounce, bounce, flip. Ker-plunk, bounce, bounce, bounce, flip. Over and over and over. After a few rounds, I zoned out as the river scurried by, circumnavigating my legs on its way to the sea. I couldn’t have felt more at peace. My grandfather would have been proud at how firmly his lessons on the lake had taken hold. I’d grown up to love fishing as much as catching, and especially that day, warmed by the brilliance of the sun and the glow of new love.
    I’d been at it maybe twenty minutes when I felt it: bounce, bounce, bounce. Thud. Wait! I held my breath. The jerk of a head. There! I yanked, setting the hook.
    “Fish on!”
    The sockeye hit the gas. Anglers on either side of me reeled in their lines full-tilt and backed out of the river to make room.
    “Woo! Oooh, yeah. Yep, there’s fish in there,” I hollered.
    “Damn! What are you messing around for, Bigley?” John shouted. “Bring that bad boy in!”
    Adrenalin pumping, I reeled as fast as I could before my fish could bolt downriver into the current of no return. I reeled and reeled and reeled. Despite its vigorous protest, I dragged it closer and closer to shore, then steered it toward the bank with the tip of my rod. In one final, sweeping motion, I dragged it onto the riverbank, where, full of piss and