It was a pretty dismal January day. The rain just would not stop. My hair was soaked under my blue baseball and stocking caps. At least I was dry under the oilskins and rubber boots. There was a hint of snow mixed with the never-ending rain now that it was mid-day and the temperature had begun to drop.
"How the hell did I get roped in this shit," I wondered as I sat in the beached bow of the eighteen-foot aluminum boat. I got colder and wetter by the minute. I had been waiting for almost two hours and the damn Japs had not shown up yet.
The boss had given me this "special assignment" the day before.
"Rent a boat and a guide for the Clackamas and take these guys fishing for salmon. Should be and easy deal," he said.
I flipped my cigarette into the swiftly flowing, green water of the Clackamas River. "Bastards!" I muttered under my breath.
Just then, a long, black limousine pulled off to the side of OR-224 just above me. Two Japanese men stepped out of the car and looked around impatiently. "Hey. Down here," I yelled at them. The two men waved and made their way down the bank through the rocks to the sandy beach.
By the look of things, this was going to be one crappy fishing trip. These guys wore their dark Brooks Brothers suits with trench coats. "Why weren't they wearing their fucking Tuxedos like they were going to a fancy dress ball or something," I thought to myself with a grimace.
"You must be Mr. Asagi and Mr. Yoshida, right?"
The two Japanese guys bowed several times and shook hands while they rattled off a bunch of Japanese stuff I couldn't even begin to understand. I soon got the idea these guys were "Englishly Challenged".
"Ok. Hop in the boat and take a seat. That guy in the back is Bill. He's our guide," I said politely as I guided my charges to their places. "Ok, Bill. I'm shoving off."
The boat motor started on the first kick and we were off. I was keeping watch for snags as we moved quickly against the current headed up river towards Carter Bridge. I noticed the two Japanese guys were looking in the bait bucket and talked excitedly among themselves. It was not English so I did not pay much attention until one of them dipped in and pulled out one of the baitfish.
"Hey. That's not for us. Hold your horses, dudes," I yelled over the sound of the motor. The Japanese guys looked at me like I was really dumb or something.
As we neared the rapids at the foot of Carter Bridge, Bill slowed the motor to idle and yelled at me, "Drop the hook here, Jenny. This is a good place. We caught a limit her yesterday." I slipped the anchor over the bow and let the anchor rode play out while we drifted down stream. Bill dropped a sea anchor over the stern and I tied off the anchor rode to a davit and attached a float.
I heard the Japanese guys going at it again in their funny sounding language and looked up at them. They both licked their lips and smiled ear to ear like two cats that had just eaten the canary. "I wonder what the hell got into those guys," I thought to myself.
Bill was busy pulling fishing poles out of the box along the port side while I was dipping into the bait bucket stringing the baitfish on hooks with long leaders. The Japanese guys looked really interested, so I tried to show them what I was doing. They both uttered something unintelligible, bowed, bowed, and smiled. It was obvious to me these guys never fished before in their lives.
Presently we had three lines out off the stern of the boat. The poles, stuck in pole holders, "worked" easily with a tell tail quiver caused by the current. The lead drop-lines held the bait at just about three feet off the bottom, which was perfect. Occasionally I could see a dark shape hurry under the boat. The Pacific salmon spawn was in full swing on the Clackamas River. I had hopes of a fine salmon on the grill when I got home. But this was not to be.
I watched the poles intently. Any movement of the poles outside the normal quiver of the current could mean a mighty salmon could be snooping around the hooked baitfish. It would have been a crime against every angler in the Northwest to sit and miss a fine silvery salmon through inattention. In fact, there was an unwritten law between fishermen that this was the greatest sin one could ever commit. The penalty for this kind of crime was never spoken due to its severity and humiliation.
For those who have never had the experience of a grown Pacific Salmon on the end of a fishing line, the fight is unbelievable. The pole bends almost of the breaking point. Line streams off the reel with a shrill ripping sound that can be heard for miles. The fish will first try and run away up or down stream, then turn and charge the boat. All the time the fisherman has to keep the line taught because even the sharpest hooks cannot penetrate the bony mouth of the big Pacific Salmon and they are easily lost. But the trophy was always well worth it. That trophy was thirty pounds of fighting fish and the undying admiration of your fellow fisherman.
I noticed that the Japanese guys were chattering in their funny lingo again so I turned to look at them. They were both hunched over the bait pail intently. One dipped into the pail, grabbed a baitfish, and popped it in his mouth. His grin was amazing. He chewed up the baitfish, swallowed and jabbered again at his companion. Holy shit! They were eating the bloody bait!
