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Under the Bridge

I was all alone as I waded down the Ninilchik River in Alaska. The sun was shining and the weather was warm. My waders kept my feet and legs insulated from the icy water that rushed passed me to the Cook Inlet about a mile downstream. In the week that I had been on the Kenai Peninsula, I had fished several rivers and caught Halibut on a rolling deck in the ocean. I had experienced “combat fishing” on the Russian River and fished late into the evening on the Kasiloff River. My two fishing buddies, Norm and Ray took an opportunity to go out for one more halibut fishing trip, so I dropped them at the charter launch point and headed for the Ninilchik. Now I was standing in the middle of it all alone. I was awe-struck by the beautiful setting. The river, about as wide as a big one-lane road meandered through meadows and around big rocks. Upriver it passed under the highway bridge. Downriver, it meandered back and forth through a meadow that led through a village and the mouth.

The beauty, warmth, and solitude allowed me to think about a recurring dream that I had as a boy. I hadn’t thought about it in years, but it was fresh again, prompted by the desire to catch a fish. The dream was a scene where I as a young boy was pulling a fish from a stream that ran through our pasture. As I was pulling the fish from the stream, without looking, I knew my Dad was walking up behind me. I grabbed the fish, turned around and held it up for him. I was laughing and he was beaming. I loved that dream. The problem was that it was just that. My Dad was a wonderful father, but he never took me fishing. My whole childhood, he worked 6 days a week. The one day he got off we worked to keep the farm going. He promised but we never went fishing. Other boys my age went fishing with their dads.

So as I stood all alone on the Ninilchick, I called out to God. “Father, this place is so beautiful, would you spend some time with me, here? Would you walk with me? Would you show me what to do; where to go? Do you have time to spend with me? I know you must be busy but can we go fishing together?”

When I said that last bit, I could feel a bit of anger that I had held for all those years towards my Dad. As I sat and retied my salmon rowe bait, I repented of that immature resentment that I had somehow harbored all these years. The emotion of the moment caught me by surprise. Sitting there in the sun, with that beautiful river flowing by, I felt God’s tender presence and the strong desire to be with the Lord. I told him that His presence, enjoying this stream with me was what I longed for. Actually catching a fish was not nearly as important. As I stood up, I asked Him which way we should go. I had been heading downstream, but I sensed the desire to go upstream, wade under the bridge, and follow the river as it turned left and headed east.

I made my way slowly upstream, sometimes on the bank, sometimes in the water. I fished the holes and still water as I went. Earlier, downstream I had caught two steelhead. Normally I would be elated, but I had to release them as I was after 30 lb. king salmon. Upstream I was not even getting steelhead bites. I entered the shade of the bridge and stepped into deeper water. As I did, I was still directly under the bridge when I glanced up ahead of me and saw an odd looking little man on far bank about 40 yards ahead of me. Beside him sat a very large black dog with white eyebrows and a grayish white muzzle. It was staring at me, not with any kind of alert, but with eyes that indicated I was of no threat to him.

The little man had seen me first. He was pacing back and forth on the bank, alternating glances at me and glances into the river below him. I kept slowly approaching him, but I had to walk from the middle of the stream to the opposite bank. The bank he was standing on was about 6 feet higher than the water level. My bank was more like a beach, directly under the bridge.

As I walked up it, he spoke in such a manner that almost sounded like we were in the middle of a conversation. “There are 5 right below me. I can see them. There are another 4 where you are, under the bridge.” He was now kneeling and pulling pieces of a small fly rod out of his backpack. “We’re all alone,” he continued. “There are a bunch of people at the mouth of the river digging clams. Wasting their time. Here is where the real action is.” Now he was plunking his hook in the water, allowing it to go to the bottom and then jerking it up. “I’ll show you they are down there. Then you will believe me,” he said with excitement in his voice.

At that point, several things were running through my mind. This little man was very odd looking. Everyone on the river wore the same uniform. Fishing vest, sunglasses, ball cap, and hip waders were all the standard wardrobe. This little man was wearing a blue wool plaid jacket, blue coveralls, and an odd looking black hat. His hair was long and curly as was his full beard. Even though there was no gray in his hair, the skin on his face was very wrinkled and looked like he had spent many an Alaskan winter out in the elements. His eyes were large and dark. Fishermen wore sunglasses so we could see the fish in the water. He wasn’t wearing any, but he was claiming he could see all these fish below us. I wondered if he wasn’t looking at logs below the water’s surface, or perhaps he had spotted some more steelhead.

He continued to plunk his line into the water and jerk up. “We’re the only ones here,” he said again. “I’ll show you that these fish are here.” Suddenly, the still water below him exploded. A good sized king salmon leapt into the air, hit the water and raced to the opposite shore. He let out a whoop as his little fly rod became a lightning rod and he hung on as it jerked up and down, left and right. The fish’s energy was only increasing as it crisscrossed the little river in an effort to get unhooked. Suddenly the water stopped churning and went silent. The fish had succeeded in losing the hook. “Whoo hoo,” he yelled. “I hooked that one in the ass! Now do you believe me?”

I admit I am not a very good fisherman. But I have learned a couple of things. One thing I learned was when you see something like what I just saw, you rig your hook with the same setup and you get it in the water, fast.

“Bait won’t work,” the little man said. “Do you know how to do the Kenai flip?” The Kenai flip is a legal snagging cast used by the locals for fish that are not responding to lures or bait.

“Yes, I know how” I replied as I sat down to rig my pole with the right hook, leader length, and weight to do the Kenai flip.

“That fish stirred up the others,” my new friend told me. “Some of them are headed towards you beneath the bridge.” As I waded back beneath the bridge, he caught another. “I got this one in the mouth!” he yelled as he played it along the bank. I was now below the bridge flipping my line into the water and jerking it up when the weight hit the bottom. I could see ripples in the water; proof that he was right. His action was moving the fish down river.

But as I walked away from him, down river giving chase, something then occurred to me. The scene seemed surreal, that was plain enough. But my recent prayer suddenly came back to me. “Would you spend time with me? Would you have some fun with me? Would you show me what to do, like a dad would do?” Even though this man is pretty strange, I thought, “Lord if this is you, I am absolutely crazy to be walking away from you.” So I abruptly turned around and started fishing towards the little man who was still wrestling with his big salmon.

Now walking under the bridge towards him, I encountered the deepest water yet. I suddenly noticed that one of my waders was taking on ice cold water. I was in the shade, under the bridge working to about 20 yards from the little man standing in the sunshine when the water exploded around me. My rod bent over and nearly jerked from my hand as beside me, not 10 feet away a huge king salmon lunged to the surface. I had my drag set pretty tight but he easily stripped out line as he took off down river in an effort to get unhooked. I let out a yell and I could hear the little man yell back, encouraging me on.

Suddenly then the line went slack as I could see the big fish change directions and head directly towards me. I reeled as fast as I could to take up the slack, all the while backing up towards the beach under the bridge. But when the fish saw the bank coming up, he abruptly turned and headed across the river again towards a partially submerged log. “Oh no you don’t!” I yelled as I tightened my drag down some more and pulled with all my might. I knew if he got under the log he would be able to catch my line. I pulled again and just got his head turned in time. But there were more logs and he headed for the next one. Again I got his head turned in time and again he race towards me, causing my line to go slack. I reeled in as fast as I could. Things were looking good. I had him headed towards the beach and I knew he had to be tiring.

But I was also aware of the eventual fate of this fish. You see, it had a dorsal fin. It was a native and when I got him to shore, (if I got him to shore), I was going to have to release him. The rules were strict that we could keep only hatchery kings like the one that I had caught on the Kasilof River a few days earlier. This was a much bigger fish. He was mad at me for disturbing his peace. But at this point he was cooperating. I had him heading my direction a second time and I new I just needed to back up and bring him onto the beach.

But there is a funny thing about king salmon. I think that is why they are called kings. He took one look at the beach, turned his head down river and with more energy than even before, he took off. My drag on my reel was cinched down as hard as I could get it but it did no good. This king shot off down river, leaving a wake as he went. My reel was singing loud in protest as he shot past the two logs and over a little rock ledge to a pool below. Suddenly I saw my weight flip up in the air towards me with the leader and hook following behind. Somehow he had pulled off his hook. I watched his wake as he disappeared around the next bend.

I was far from disappointed about how this battle had ended. I knew he was destined to be set free. The fact that he did it himself only added to the thrill. The fish was huge. The battle was thrilling. I yelled out with pure elation only to hear the little man behind me adding to my cheers. “That was sure a lot more exciting than clam digging, wasn’t it!” he boomed out. I couldn’t agree more. I turned around to see him and his big dog on the bank behind me. He had real joy in his eyes as he spoke again. “Have a great Holiday!” Then he turned and stepped into the forest. His dog lingered just a bit longer, looking at me, then also turned, following on the little man’s heals as they both disappeared up a small trail.

It was suddenly quiet. I was standing in the middle of the river. Sun was bathing me in warmth and I was all alone. The water was quiet around me. I strained to catch a glimpse of the old man but he had vanished. I looked around to hopefully see another witness. I wanted to ask someone, “Did you see what just happened? But, there was no one.

If someone would have walked up then, he wouldn’t have understood. Here was a 56 year old fisherman standing in the middle of a river with tears streaming down his cheeks. A dam had burst inside of me and waves of emotion were causing me to let loose with some tears. I was remembering what I had prayed earlier. I was also remembering everything the little man had done and said. His disdain for the people digging clams at the mouth of the river when the real prize was here under the bridge was humorous. But I felt convicted, because I spend way too much time on and put way to much importance in my own version of clam digging. His ability to see the fish, his joy at showing them to me, and then his elation when I caught one were the things that I kept remembering.

Now I wrestle with this next part. Probably a good fisherman would have turned back into the water to see how many more he could hook. But I made my way to the bank, sat in the sun, embraced the solitude and simply enjoyed what had just happened as I inconspicuously wiped tears from my eyes. I also allowed my logic to take over, thinking that if the little man was not a divine being, he certainly was someone who God used. But why does everything that he said have a depth of meaning for me? Why do I remember bits of our conversation days later only to realize that each thing he said speaks deeply to me?