It was probably the angriest my buddy Rob and I have ever been at each other.
It was the summer of 2015 and he was most of his way through a limit of silvers on the Thorne River. He glided one near the shore. I grabbed the club and swung. Water splashed. The fish swam off.
“I don’t see how you could have thought anything else except that was going to happen.”
I was angry because he had said he wasn’t convinced of my plan, but it’s what I do when I fish solo at the rocky spot where we were fishing. It’s a fool-proof program, for me at least. After all, I was the Alaskan who had been coming back every summer to fish. I was the Alaskan who had moved back. He was the one who hadn’t called Alaska home since he graduated high school in 1998. He was the one who hadn’t caught a salmon for years. I would be the one who was reintroducing him to how we do things up here.
I was upset I was wrong and cost him a fish.
He was upset I cost him a fish.