Revive - A Quarterly Fly Fishing Journal (Volume 1. Issue 4. Spring 2014) - Page 74

I will always remember the exact moment when I knew it was him. I will remember because the bells began a new song, more familiar than any of those coming before it, with deep bellows sounding across the town that resonated in the back of my throat. With highs that pierced the cold November afternoon and demanded attention. All those things that ran together were forgotten in an instant, their unimportance immediately realized. The bells sang another song about Surrender and I had heard it hundreds or even thousands of times. And in that second, that moment of remembering, my line drew tight and he shot upstream, launched from the water, pulled with the strength and speed of generations of an anadromous mind. We pushed and pulled and gained and lost for verses upon verses, through refrains and stanzas and turns and codas. There were times when I thought things were in my favor, others when they were in his. Each clang of those bells felt longer and reverberated further. But then it was over and I lifted him out of the water for a few seconds, I pulled the hook from his mouth and grabbed him by the tail and pushed and pulled him through the current and he lumbered back down into the middle of that river, back where I found him the first time.