I was knee-deep in the river, facing directly into the sun, swinging flies at the very top of a long run. Below me were several other anglers, spread out at respectful distances from one another. I could barely make out the lowest man in the run. The sun burned a holographic neon image of the western horizon into my retina. The farthest guy seemed to be casting chrome spinners, a couple of brothers were drifting bait mid-pool, and a guy just a hundred feet or so below me was tossing a spoon. As the warm spring sun re-heated Gladstone, everything began to ooze a thick steam. The rocks, the willows, the fishermen, the pump house, the old train bridge, all smoldered like drowned coals. It was at this painfully beautiful moment, that all hell broke loose.

The farthest guy started yelling. Another guy was running toward him. Then, through the layers of mist rising in the intense sunlight, I saw a salmon, airborne. Like slow motion, it threw off the water that had clung to its sides, sending thousands of sparkling diamonds radiating in every direction. Then came a war cry. One of the brothers was tight to a fish just a couple hundred feet away. Then his brother hooked up.

I was still far enough away from the action that I could continue fishing, which I did. I stripped off some line, threw a double-Spey cast, and fed extra line into my drift to get down deeper. But the current was still too strong where I was fishing, and even with my type-six sink tip and a weighted 3/0 fly, I was practically skating a dry fly. I took a couple of steps downstream and threw another cast. This one swung at least an inch under the surface.

The brothers were working on a couple of big Chinook. Two other fish were already flopping on the bank below. As my fly ripped across the current, I saw a fish roll out in the heavy water. "Holy shit," I thought, "this could be it." I made another cast, took a couple of quick steps, and swung the huge red fly again. This time it seemed to be getting down a little deeper. But when it swung behind a boulder directly below me, the fly came up to the surface in the turbulence.

"Damn," I thought out loud. "Not even fishing."

Just then, while my fly still lingered at the surface, a little black nose came up and was gone. After a split second of hesitation, my left arm was jerked out of its socket. My saltwater reel sang out to the gear-chuckers below, and my fish jumped explosively as it raced down river. Never before, or since, has that reel made such a noise. In a matter of a couple of seconds my backing was half-gone, and I was still in shock. I thought I could slow the fish down by palming the rim of the reel. But when the heel of my hand grabbed the spool, I felt the leader part. The tasteless words that flew through my mind are not fit for print.

I reeled in and stumbled to shore. The brothers were admiring a shiny salmon, well over twenty pounds, and patting each other on the back. A couple of other nice fish lay in the willows. I stared at the big one. The setting sun caught every color in the fish's face. I stood mesmerized, my body still pulsing with adrenaline.

"Where's your fish?" one of the brothers asked. He was looking at me. "Looked like you had a hawg on there," he queried.

"Yeah. I broke him off," I whimpered.

"Well, hell, just hookin' one on a fly is pretty cool!" one of them said. But I wasn't really listening. I was still trapped in that moment; that unbelievable grab, the sound of my reel, and that fish!

The Garbage Hole
Springer fever had me. I returned to the fateful spot over and over, but never again witnessed anything like that one afternoon. I hooked steelhead pretty reliably with my big flies, but the salmon just kept swimming by. I would occasionally see a gear guy get a fish, so I knew they were out there. But a couple of weeks of aggravation had left me perplexed. I considered my options.

Then came my big invitation. A friend with a big jet boat had a seat free for the Willamette River opener-the spring Chinook slam-fest. What the heck? Since I didn't seem to be able to entice them on flies (at least not more than once or twice a month), I figured I owed it to myself. Bring on the spinner-prawns and cannonballs!

An hour before first light on the big morning, we sat in Oregon City traffic sipping McDonald's coffee.

"Can this traffic really be for the boat launch?" I asked innocently. The other guys just laughed. It was all boats and big trucks. We were still a quarter mile from the landing. We were having lots of fun.

Some time after first light, we actually launched and began the job of finding parking. I swear it seemed like Oregon City had declared a special holiday. If these people were all here on the river, who was manning the businesses and schools? We found an inconvenient spot for the rig and made it through the crowd back to the boat.

Out on the water, the river looked like a parking lot. Rows of boats were staggered from Willamette Falls down to the mouth of the Clackamas. There were hundreds of boats in a half-mile of river. I had never witnessed anything like it. I couldn't help thinking about all of the money tied up in this stuff: the trucks, the boats, the gear, the sick leave, the marital counseling.

My friend acted like he knew where to go. "Just find Terry Mulkey, he has the biggest boat," our fearless captain ordered. "Wherever he is, that's where the fish are."

That was too much, even if it was logical. "You've got to be kidding," I blurted, obviously disgusted. "I'll bet he loves that." Terry Mulkey, a well-known fishing guide, was sure to appreciate a boatload of boneheads following him around all day. I really didn't want to be a part of this.

"Oh, he won't know," our captain reassured me.

Within a few minutes he was close enough to Terry to be carrying on a one sided conversation with him. Terry nodded and smiled. I imagined he couldn't hear a word, what with all the noise, and the fact that he was managing five lines, two motors and a twenty-four foot boat.

Almost immediately the bite turned on. I hooked the first fish, a beautiful native about fifteen pounds. I tried to get a look at it, but it was tied up in a net, then it was gone. There were so many people around, and so much activity-it wasn't the time or place for fish worship. Whack 'em and stack 'em was the rule of the day, unless, of course, you got one of those "damn natives."

We had great fishing, hooking five or six fish by noon. Once we got into the rhythm of it, it wasn't all that bad having to dodge other boats. But at the end of the day I felt like I had witnessed a tragic commoditization of my beloved quarry. Spring Chinook weren't the same magnificent fish when hoisted into a sled and whacked. I was glad to have the fatty fillets for my barbeque, but I was looking for a different kind of experience.

In Search of Perfection
Several years have passed since those first spring Chinook outings. In that time I have searched high and low for the best time and place to battle a springer, from the mighty Columbia and her tributaries, to the comparatively small rivers of the Oregon coast. Try as I may, I still have not been able to dial-in springers on the fly. In almost three years of guiding, I have brought only two springers to the beach by a fly. But I have found another way to get similar satisfaction.

I have learned to target the smallest rivers with the lightest tackle. There are lots of smaller rivers with a spring run. And every spring, on every river with a spring Chinook run, there is a narrow window of time when the salmon are on the move. The peak time is different on every river, but it's usually in the first few weeks of the run (May or June). During this time, the fish are fresh and aggressive.

On small rivers, during the peak of the run, spring Chinook will consistently move during the dark hours. Even for the first hour or so of light (especially on cloudy or rainy days), these big blue torpedoes nose their way up the narrowest river channels. They move deliberately to specific deep holes where other salmon are holding. Once they hold in position, either in a deep pool, or behind a boulder or root wad, they are susceptible to a careful presentation.

The key to getting them to bite is making sure they don't sense your presence. They will grab spinners, plugs of every variety, and, especially, a fresh sand shrimp. There is no question whether or not you have had a bite. They grab with conviction and proceed to kick your sorry butt up and down the hole, searching for a good piece of wood to escape into. Suddenly, all illusions of being in control are gone. You just work hard and pray that you won't mess it up.

The key to having the most fun possible is using light tackle. Light rods make for wimpy hook sets, which means you will loose more than your fair share of fish. Light line (like ten to twelve pound test) is easily broken by a twenty-plus pound springer. Doesn't that sound great? It is.

However, I didn't wind up fishing light tackle for springers just for the butt whooping. In the low, clear water of late spring, light line and thoughtful presentation actually hooks more fish. If springers are huddled together in a ten-foot deep pool of crystal clear water, they notice every little thing that drifts by. And once the stupid one is caught, the rest of them will be that much less likely to bite. Light lines, a single sand shrimp and as little additional tackle as is possible will greatly improve your odds.

The combination of light tackle, small rivers, and big, bad fish makes for a supreme experience. Each fish is a treasure, to be appreciated in its own time. The fish deserve it. And I like to take a little time to worship.

I haven't decided if my clients appreciate it the way I do. I get comments like, "Remind me again why I'm using this noodle rod," while a fish is towing us down the river. And I do just that. I remind them that anyone can haul in a slab with a meat-stick. I remind them that IF they land this fish (and that's a big IF), they will have done something great. Sometimes it takes a few months to resonate, but I usually get my satisfaction. "You were right," they say, "that kicked ass!"

Sidebar:
Oregon's coastal spring Chinook are a special race of fish. They spawn within a few miles of the ocean, as opposed to the Columbia's fish (which may travel hundreds of miles before coming to rest). They are built like tanks, and fight with an anger I have not witnessed in any other freshwater fish.

Unlike the spring runs of the Columbia system, there is no abundance forecast made by the Department of Fish & Wildlife (ODFW). Too little data is available for fisheries biologists regarding coastal Chinook-no dam counts, and no creel-census data. All they have are spawning surveys, which are rather unreliable (different environmental factors can change abundance of spawners in any given portion of a river).

"All we can do is figure that our fish will have a similar ocean-survival rate as the Columbia fish," says Keith Braun, ODFW's regional biologist in Tillamook, Oregon. That sounds like pretty good news, considering that the Columbia run appears strong this year.

This will be the first year that all hatchery spring Chinook (up to five-year-old fish) will return clipped to Oregon's coastal rivers. There may be a few big six-year-olds that slip through without a clip, but they make up a tiny fraction of the run. Braun says the coastal springers are mostly four to five years old (15 to 30 pounds).

Native springers are among the most endangered of all Pacific coast fishes. They are not as numerous as their hatchery cousins, and must be released unharmed. This means making sure they don't go in the net, but are brought carefully into shallow water, revived and returned back into the deepest, coldest water around. By June, water temperatures can be in the high fifties, making it even more important to take care of these special fish.