Through the morning we worked one
shallow run after the other and got fish
everywhere we swung the Bald Eagle. The
fishing was so good that our videographers
took over the rods and each caught some
good bulls. But England didn’t get the one
he wanted. When he was done fishing
a particular run Telleen waded in behind
him, fished a log that England overlooked,
and picked his pocket—to the tune of a
30-inch bull. I had to laugh when I looked
downstream and saw England and Telleen
struggling to photograph that fish, which
was the largest of the trip.
After we’d all landed fish we headed as far
upriver as we could, to a place where the
jet-sled could go no farther. And then we
hiked upstream a ways to fish an endless
array of perfect runs. The fish weren’t as
stacked up as we’d hoped they would be,
probably because they were feeding on
smolt in the shallow riffles off gravel bars
downstream. But, looking upstream at one
great pool after another I had to wonder—
how many good pools rested upstream and
what would the fishing be like when the
bulls moved up? Google Earth, I declared,
would solve that mystery.
. . . to put it in to perspective, at
one point, in about a 20-minute
period, I watched Telleen land
11 without moving his feet.
I have no idea how many fish we caught
that day, and it probably doesn’t matter,
but to put it in to perspective, at one point,
in about a 20-minute period, I watched
Telleen land 11 without moving his feet.
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Photo by Jerrin Uecker of North 40 Outfitters
This bull is headed back to the
underwater world no worse for wear.
Most of these coastal bulls ranged
between 14 and 18 inches but a few
pushed past the five-pound mark.
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