I felt a little bump and raised my fly rod and 20 yards away the riffled surface of the Salmon River exploded. A huge spray of water flew into the air as a steel-gray, paddle-sized forked tail briefly flashed out of the water and slapped down again sending up a second explosion of water that looked like somebody had just done a cannonball into a swimming pool. My fly line ripped across the surface of the river with a loud whoosh, water curtaining down from the line as the giant fish tore toward the bank and in an instant kick-flipped back into the deeper water. I tried to put some pressure on the fish and, in the blink of an eye, my fly popped loose and all my fly line rocketed up out of the water and landed on the island to my back.

A line of fishermen standing 15 feet apart sent up a chorus of whoops as I stood there, wide-eyed and shaking, my hands shaking from the adrenalin that ripped through me during the four second fight and my head shaking in disbelief of the power I’d unleashed by simply raising my rod.