Back When Glaciers Were Just Puddles: My Salmon Soiree

Hmph. Fishing. Juniors these days think they invented it. Stringing some shiny garbage on a hook and calling it a ‘lure’. Bah! I’ve been pulling salmon out of the rivers of Washington since before Washington was even a twinkle in a tectonic plate’s eye. I'm talking primordial soup days, almost.

You see, back in my day, we didn’t have fancy synthetic lines or graphite rods. We used what Great Mother Nature provided. And Great Mother Nature, back then, was feeling particularly generous with the willow branches. Strong, pliable, and perfect for fashioning a makeshift spear. Of course, that's if you couldn’t just use your bare hands. Which, naturally, I preferred.

Now, this particular tale unfolds on the banks of the pre-Puget Sound, a time when the Cascade Mountains were still finding their footing. The salmon run was legendary. Forget what you see now, these were fish of biblical proportions. We're talking salmon that could swallow a Junior whole – and some probably did, though I never witnessed it myself. I wasn't that hungry.

I’d found myself a prime spot, naturally. Juniors were kept at bay with a series of strategically placed… aroma markers. Let's just say they didn't venture close. The river roared, a symphony of glacial melt and desperate salmon trying to get upstream to, well, you know. I was poised, a furry, thousand-pound blur of focused intention. I swear I was poetry in motion. Of course, I probably just looked like a big, hairy ape trying to swat a fish. But I know better.

Then, I saw her. A magnificent Chinook, easily thirty… no, forty pounds! Gleaming silver, practically begging to be harvested. I crouched, tensed my muscles, and waited for the perfect moment. I reached, and then some sneaky little… otter darted in front of me, snatching the salmon right from under my nose.

Can you believe the audacity? I roared! A primal scream that echoed across the valley, probably scaring a family of early mastodons half to death. The otter, bless its furry little heart, dropped the salmon and scurried away, undoubtedly traumatized for life.

But the salmon! It wasn’t just any salmon, it was the prize-winning salmon. So there I was, chasing after the fish who was now being chased by a bear. The bear was followed by some weird wolf-like thing. Basically, I was running across pre-Washington, watching my dinner become a multi-species obstacle course.

Finally, I caught up. With a swift kick, I sent the wolf-like creature scampering, leaving the bear to waddle away with a look of utter bewilderment. The salmon, finally, was mine! I cooked it over a roaring fire, seasoned with pine needles and a dash of disgruntled Sasquatch indignation.

The irony? It tasted… bland. Absolutely bland. Turns out, fighting tooth and nail for your dinner doesn’t automatically make it taste better. It just makes you tired and slightly more cynical.

Chasing after the biggest fish in the river rarely pays off. You end up with a mediocre meal and a lot of unnecessary cardio. Sometimes, it's better to just settle for the smaller, easier catch. And avoid otters. Those little buggers are trouble.