Steam slipped off my shoulders onto the clear emerald waters, rising up the river’s bank and dissipating into the foggy mist over the trees. Plunk, the anchor was down. The river lapped silently at our boat. The salmon rolled. The rods tipped playfully. A brisk morning breeze brushed my face, tugging at my eyelids and pushing my warm cozy bed at the Boiler Riffle back into my afternoon thoughts.
My toes tingled with anticipation of a nice King…or maybe it was that breeze. An osprey snarred her catch just off our bow, circling like a glider on thermals. She paused to lighten her load, then climbed higher reaching her nest with seeming ease.
Our guide, a master at threading sardine baited hooks, lured our attention away from the stillness of the rods with catching conversation. The salmon rolled.
We filled our bellies with spicy sausage, eggs and Tu tu tun mixed berry muffins and… waited.
The sun broke as we shared our follies from the night before. The salmon rolled. Maybe they were annoyed by the presence of our boat, excited by our lures, surfacing to belch, or bumping each other along. Perhaps they were taunting us or that seal, was that a seal? Or maybe, they were just salmon. We would never know.
We talked about the salmon, talked about our jobs, talked about the weather, talked about our children. The rods tip tip tipped. The salmon rolled.
We hoisted the anchor and slipped quitely back to shore. Maybe next time the salmon would stop and tell us why. Maybe they were just salmon.
