Hmph. Fishing stories. You Juniors are always clamoring for ’em, ain’t ya? Like my thousand-plus years of existence is just a pile of tall tales for your amusement. Fine. I’ll tell you one. But don’t expect any heartwarming rubbish. And definitely don’t expect me to be impressed when you finally catch a trout the size of your thumb.
This was… oh, who even keeps track? Let’s just say it was back when the Vikings were still a relatively new nuisance. Leif Erikson, the supposedly great explorer, stumbled through my territory one soggy afternoon, reeking of brine and incompetence. He was chasing after some salmon, the fool.
He sees me, of course. Can’t exactly hide a 9-foot Sasquatch, even in this blasted forest. After the usual shouting and flailing (Vikings, honestly, drama queens), he gets to the point. He’s hungry. Salmon evasive. Could I, *please*, share my “ancient Sasquatch wisdom” on the fine art of angling?
“Wisdom?” I scoffed, which, incidentally, sounds like a landslide to you little ears. “You wouldn’t recognize wisdom if it bit you on your helmet. But fine. I’ll give you one lesson. Just one. And if you mess it up, you’re on your own.”
I took him to the Skagit River – pristine back then, before you Juniors and your shiny metal toys polluted it all. I showed him my technique. Simple, elegant, effective. No fancy rods or reels. Just a sturdy vine, a sharpened stick, and bait that actually appeals to a salmon’s refined palate. (Hint: it involves fermented berries and a pinch of freshly dug earthworms – none of that store-bought nonsense.)
Erikson, naturally, ignored everything I said. He had some preposterous contraption made of bone and sinew, claimed it was the pinnacle of Norse fishing technology. He proceeded to flail around like a drunken badger, snagging every rock and tree branch within a five-mile radius. He even managed to hook his own beard. Twice.
Meanwhile, I, with minimal effort, landed three magnificent Chinook salmon. Each one bigger than his entire longboat, probably. I cleaned them with a flick of my wrist, roasted them over a fire I started with a single glare (years of practice), and ate them. All three. In front of him.
He eventually gave up, muttering something about the “curse of the forest spirits” and how he needed more beer. He left, empty-handed and smelling faintly of singed beard hair. I swear, Juniors, the only thing those Vikings were good at was making noise and raiding monasteries. Fishing? Forget about it.
Oh, and the best part? A few weeks later, I heard he started telling stories about how *he* caught those salmon. Claimed I was just a helpful, if slightly hairy, guide. The audacity! That’s Vikings for ya. Taking credit for everything and understanding nothing.
Never trust a Junior with a fishing rod, especially if he claims to know more than you. And if you happen to meet a Viking, just steal his boat. He probably doesn’t know how to sail it anyway.