A half-blind Korean War vet, Ross, took me trolling on the
Willamette Channel to catch my first salmon there. He was a platoon leader, and I later found
out one of two men in his platoon to survive combat. Ross never mentioned war, that he had
been in combat most of the time, fighting at Heartbreak
Ridge, or that he carried a wounded friend named Tex many miles to safety. Instead, we spent days in comfortable silence,
eyes on rod tips, anticipating strikes of early spring chinook.
It didn’t matter if we fished in rain, mist, or sun, Ross
always had an internal smile that made people want to be around him. The day I caught the above fish, I knew something
extremely important had happened in my life.
I didn’t know that among Columbia River tribes, catching one’s first
salmon was a rite of passage. I nailed
the salmon’s head to a Douglas fir in my backyard.
always had an internal smile that made people want to be around him. The day I caught the above fish, I knew something
extremely important had happened in my life.
I didn’t know that among Columbia River tribes, catching one’s first
salmon was a rite of passage. I nailed
the salmon’s head to a Douglas fir in my backyard.
Ross taught me to kill fish quickly and
cleanly without anger, in a way I would desire to be killed if I were the fish.
cleanly without anger, in a way I would desire to be killed if I were the fish.
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