ChromeKing

Do I see a rainbow smoking a cigarette? I thought they'd cleaned up the lake!

Tony (Old Man of the Sea) Lindsay, ON

Thanks, Syl! It is my PB for salmon in Ontario. Next year, maybe a bigger one? It was an amazing fight and the flesh tastes sweet. Tight lines!

Thanks, Scobar! Hope you enjoyed it.

Thank you, sir. I just tried to bring a little more creativity to the story than the traditional style. Glad you liked it! Now, send a pic and story of your own! Tony

I've never had my vocabulary complimented by a fisherman! Thannx!

Thanks for your patience. But, then again, fishermen often learn to be a patient lot...of course, not always from choice. Tight lines!

Yeah...Hemmingway in disguise. LMAO!

Six o'clock in the morning; just had an Uncle Timmy's coffee and a bite; just put the lines down; sat back to relax and watch the rods; BAM! ROD DOWN! Then my ears catch that beautiful screeching, slipping sound of line being torn out of a Daiawa level-wind like sinews snapping in the arms of a prisoner on the rack. At the same time, my 9' Ugly Stick displays a hideously beautiful posture as it bows in obeisance to the wicked power of this more southerly-dwelling minion of Eqatlejoq, the Inuit salmon god. A might angry head shakes in defiance of the equipment and my intent. Persisting stubbornly, the fish proceeds to rip lengthy pieces of flourocarbon in its mad, frenzied-yet-futile last-ditch dashes towards escape. My aching biceps hold on, hands locked tightly on the cork in the fixed, unbreakable, unmistakable grip of a predator, teeth sunk into its prey, ready to withstand with Herculean effort the thrashings of a noble creature fighting a losing battle. Finally, in abject supplication, tired out, well-played, my quarry slowly comes in...warily eyeing the boat and its occupants. As the wide hoop moves forward, he spooks! Seaguar sings a song of denial as Lake Ontario's finest bolts once again into the chop, down...down...down...then stops. He doesn't move, frozen in time and place like a deer in the headlights. I lean slowly back, flexing the graphite blank as far as I dare, waiting for the reel's keening cry one more time. But, there is nothing. I begin a slow, steady, rhythmic pump, dragging this challenging Chinook laboriously back over the 150 yds. he has stolen. Once again, he is seen. Swimming oh-so-slowly, almost contemptuously at the side of our craft, teasing us into questioning his stamina. Alas, his resistance is crushed. He has spent himself and is now controlled, tamed, broken and quickly scooped up into the gaping maw of mesh. Twenty-four-and-a-half pounds of piscatorial piss-'n-vinegar is now hanging in my arms, destined for photographic stardom and my kitchen--in that order. He is no trophy and not worthy enough for any prizes in the Derby. But, he will no doubt live on forever as the subject of more than one passionate fishing discussion, as his story is told with fond memory amidst the clink of bottles and the sound of music in the years of my life to come.