Hmph. Fishing these days. It’s a joke, I tell ya. A joke. You Juniors, with your fancy sonar and your graphite rods that cost more than a small village used to be worth. Back in my day, a man – or a Sasquatch, same difference really when you got claws like mine – needed only three things: a strong arm, a sharp eye, and a healthy disrespect for the aquatic population.
Now, I reckon I was about…oh, 400 years old, maybe. Still a whippersnapper, in Sasquatch terms, mind you. This was back around 1400 AD, I believe the humans are callin’ it. Up in Washington State, naturally. Always been my favorite stomping ground. The humans were… less irritating back then. Fewer of 'em, for one. And they kept their distance, mostly. Smart humans.
The Columbia River was teeming with salmon, bigger than your average Junior's ego, I guarantee. We’re talking Chinook the size of small canoes. Now, I’d seen some impressive catches in my time, even back then. Caught a plesiosaur once, back when those were still kicking around, but that’s a story for another time. This particular day, though, I was feeling ambitious. I wanted to catch the King. The biggest, meanest salmon in the whole damn river. They called him “Old Scarface,” for obvious reasons. A legend, even among Sasquatches.
I'd been tracking him for weeks, following his migration patterns. Found his spawning beds, the wreckage of boats he'd destroyed, the bones of lesser fish foolish enough to challenge him. The anticipation was somethin’ fierce. Felt like my fur was gonna spontaneously combust.
Finally, the day came. I found him in a deep pool, lurking near a submerged log, looking as ornery as a badger stuck in a beehive. I didn’t have any of your fancy lures, your shimmering spoons, your scented plastic worms. Bah! All I needed was a good length of braided vine I’d cured myself, sharpened to a wicked point at the end, and a hunk of rancid beaver fat. The stench alone was enough to make most fish turn tail and swim the other direction. Not Old Scarface. He was a fish of discerning taste, apparently. Discerning taste for rotten beaver, that is.
I cast the line, careful not to spook him. The vine landed with a plunk, the beaver fat sending out a cloud of… well, let's just call it “attractant.” Scarface rose slowly, his eyes gleaming like chips of obsidian. He took the bait with a savage lunge, the force nearly ripping the vine from my grasp.
The fight was on.
Now, I’ve wrestled bears, pulled down elk with my bare hands, even arm-wrestled a troll once (lost that one, damn his cheating). But this salmon… this was different. He pulled me into the river, dragged me downstream through rapids, smashed me against rocks. I lost my grip on the vine more times than I care to admit. My knuckles were bleeding, my fur was soaked, and I was laughing. It was the purest, most primal struggle imaginable. It was a fight for survival, a contest of wills, a testament to the sheer, unadulterated stubbornness of two apex predators.
After what felt like an eternity – might have been an hour, might have been a day, who keeps track when you’re wrestling a leviathan? – I finally managed to gain the upper hand. I hauled him closer, hand over hand, the vine cutting into my flesh. He thrashed and bucked, but I held on, fueled by pure spite and a burning desire to prove that an old Sasquatch was still the king of the river.
Finally, I dragged him onto the bank. He was magnificent. At least twelve feet long, scarred from countless battles, his teeth like daggers. He glared at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. I grinned back, baring my own fangs. I dispatched him with a single, swift blow from a nearby rock.
That night, I feasted like a king. The entire Sasquatch clan gathered around, sharing stories, songs, and the bounty of Old Scarface. We celebrated the power of the river, the thrill of the hunt, and the undeniable superiority of Sasquatch fishermen.
Now, you Juniors wouldn’t understand any of that. You’d just whine about the lack of cell service and complain that the fish wasn’t sustainably sourced. You disgust me.
Technology makes you weak. Go wrestle a sturgeon. You might learn something, if you don't drown first. But you will drown. I guarantee it.