by Tim Robinson

Above Covington, east of Kent, in the summer, the Green River runs low and clear. The deep pools of emerald water wend their way downstream, like crinkled foil, reflecting a flash of light; the cool life's blood of fish and other aquatic curiosities , makes its way to the Kent valley.

The promise of 80-degree weather hurried my morning activities. The alarm clock had shaken my senses at 5:30 a.m... We're goin fishun'.

With my arm securely resting on my cooler of sandwiches and beer, my wife caught some extra zzz's as the dawn lit the highway before me. I envisioned thoughts of lunkers finning in the depths.

We selected a proper spot at the river's edge and set up camp.  I prepared my gear while my wife went foraging for flora and fauna collectibles.

On this section of the river steep rock banks protect and guide the water on its rippling journey. Large shadows from those banks create dark havens for steelhead trout. Calmly they wait. They must be patient for the next freshet of rain water to advance their upstream journey.

Fishing is better on overcast days they say. The fish are not as deep and can be slightly more active. The bright sun can push them down and quiet them. With this in mind I worked my way downstream.  Sneaking up, slowly, in a low profile. I cast down across a large pool. Using a Cast Master, Mepps number 3 , Blue Fox. I thrashed the water to no avail. I tried two or three other spinning lures too. Nothing worked.

The noon-day sun was pushing the fish deeper. The heat of the day made me thirst for cool can of beer at the campsite. I sipped. In an hour the sun had slipped behind the rocky overhang where we camped.

Rested and ready I worked my way back to my previous spot. I cast my lure down through the shadowy pool. Again no luck. Repeated efforts brought repeated failure.

Never one to give up too soon I searched my thought processes for a clue.

In a desperate move I heaved my lure the entire length of the pool and let it sink to the bottom. Risking a snag on a craggy rock, I let the lure down,...down. There on the bottom...I began to retrieve slowly. Maybe I could antagonize one of them. Get in his lair and bother him with my silvery, hooked invader.

Halfway back the line grew taut. "Yup..a rock, an old branch." "No, wait, the line cut a slithery path thirty yards downstream. My six pound test was being tested alright! Moving back, I lifted the pole high over my head. Reeling briskly to avoid slack. I maintained my position while I tightened the drag a little.

Suddenly a change of direction. Now the fish was coming right at me. Too fast to reel. I had

plenty of slack line as he cut a swath of lathery water twenty feet away upstream quickly

into the current.  The line grew taut again. Now downstream scouring the pool like a scrub brush

on the inside of a deep pot.

The line hummed, growing tighter. I let him run. Moving deeper, as if angered. This was a slab!

Now upstream again.  The line went dead. "Oh no!," I've lost him.  Complete slack, no action just a bunch of loose line at my feet. I reeled it all back. Bummer!

As I neared the end I noticed my lure flashing toward me, below my feet. As the spinner surfaced it carried with it a rat's nest of line and another lure!. The nest was the size of a major league hardball and plenty jangled. The lure was a Mepps #4. I was using my CastMaster.

The wad of line trailed off into the water like the bow line of a small boat. I began hand-over-hand retrieval of the line.

      After ten or 12 pulls the line stopped. Stuck!? No! he's still there. He pulled me back.

I resisted. A tug-o-war was on. I wrapped the line around my wrist and took in more line with my right hand. The fish gave several furious pulls. I  tugged. We battled for more than a minute this way. Neither giving an inch.

Slowly I gained on him. After all , I must have outweighed him a little. Hand over hand he came to me, he was hooked good.

An eager audience had gathered, including my wife, who stood by with a pint-sized trout net.

Nervously. I guided the dark image closer to the rocky ledge I'd been fishing from. With little resistance I yanked quickly; sliding out of the river came a mint-bright Steelhead.

I held up my prize. My wife, hoping for a nice trout, said it was "dinner for six!"
Standing on the river bank, with all the onlookers, I was pretty happy.

A fellow fisherman then offered information about an event three weeks before. He said a guy had lost a big fish in that very pool on a big gob of eggs. The fish had probably been swimming around down there when some other fisherman snagged that line and lost his Mepps #4 to the same fish. Hence the ball of line and loose lure.  I came along and dragged my lure across the bottom of the pool and hooked into the rats' nest of line created by the two fishermen before me. Following the line up to the tangled lure led me to land, bare-handed a nice 13-pound, summer-run steelhead.