sturgeon

Sept. 25, 2009

An RV pulled over on the side of the interstate. Someone burst through the door and sprinted towards me. My jaw dropped. It was Stefanie: the fiddler from Baker City. Some friends were taking her and her husband to play at a Blue Grass music festival in Central Oregon. We had a hug-filled reunion with snapping cameras and semis rumbling by.

Moments after they pulled off, I felt my bike slow as my back tire lost all its air. I figured the funky patch I’d gotten from the hardware stove the night before had given out. All we had left were funky patches. (It turns out, it was just another hole. I could have patched it; but fate was taking us fishing). We stuck out our thumb to get to the next bike shop.

Another RV pulled over; this one toting a boat. The fisherman, Steve, helped us load our bikes. “I have room in the boat if you want to join me sturgeon fishing today,” he invited. It took an iota of thought. Steve bought us day licenses and we headed to the Columbia. Minutes after casting out, we got a bite. Twenty minutes later, with sweat dripping and a fresh blister on my thumb, I pulled an 8-foot prehistoric sturgeon to the stern. Unreal.

We made turkey sandwiches, drank beer and Gatorade, and relaxed in the sunshine between battles with monster fish that we wide-eyed stared at before releasing back into the river.

At the end of the day, we all decided that was the best flat we had ever had.