The first sign of spring in my part of the Northwest is the beginning of the smelt run. For many thousands of years, local residents have waited impatiently for the tiny fish in the huge schools. After a diet of lean elk and leaner steelhead, the fat little spawners, also called “candlefish,” provide a few weeks of fat and protein. Flowing up rivers like the Cowlitz and the Sandy, and sneaking up some of the smaller streams as welcome surprises, the tiny silver flood draws marine birds, seals and higher primates to an orgy of sex and feeding. Who could ask for more?

I recently got an e-mail from an old college friend, Carol. She was an old buddy who pretty much single-handedly managed to get me though a lot of tough times, especially with the battering I was taking in German! When we finally managed to get back in touch after many decades, she was amazed that I was doing a bit of writing. “I can’t really believe that you can read books, let alone write them!” Nothing like a vote of confidence from those folks who knew you when, especially someone with a graduate degree in library science.

In one of the cruel ironies of life, my onset of insomnia occurred within days of my retirement. When I finally had lots of time to hunt and fish, I couldn’t get enough sleep to enjoy it! Over the years, medications and careful planning have enabled me to enjoy a few mornings a week, but not without some effort. This has always had the effect of tickling the funny bone of my oldest fishing buddy, Milford.

The first time I met Wong she was battling a late November coho. Using all of her strength, she could barely move the big buck. Pull as she might, the huge shiny mass with the hooked jaw seemed to be getting the best of her. Even the cold east wind wasn’t enough to cool her brow, and the effort was taking a toll. Beads of sweat were forming on her brow and she was gritting her teeth with the effort. Tiny feet clad in rubber hip boots were losing traction as they drove into the slick clay of the streamside.