Lockjaw Lessons

What should’ve been a dream trip turned into a brutal reminder of just how tough fishing can be

- T. Edward Nickens

I STILL BELIEVED, even after our guide called it a day. Whitecaps were stitching the broad plain of the Columbia River, from shore to shore deep in the gorge, all the way to the mouth of the Deschutes. I knew the run back to the boat ramp would be a back crusher. I knew we hadn’t had a strike in four hours, despite five anglers in the boat and legendary guide Herb Good at the helm. And I knew all too well that our crew had caught just three fish in four full days of fishing. Still, I believed my fish was coming, despite Good’s concession.

“Crank them up, boys,” he said. “We’re heading in.”

Through 30 hours of relentless fishing, through the slop and chop, the long faces at the fish camp, the guides’ grimaces, and all of the worn-out “that’s why they call it fishing” maxims, I never stopped believing. I knew the bite could turn around in a single cast—that at least a few of the million-plus Columbia River chinook salmon would take an interest in my glob of eggs.

So I jerked as if startled by a gunshot when Good conceded the day. I’d focused every synapse toward my rod’s top guide as I watched—minute by minute, hour by hour—for that subtle tick that would signal a bite. It could happen. It would happen. I still believed.

FACING REALITY