Jeff Campiche holds up a 20-pound spring-run Chinook caught last week near Cathlamet.

Editor’s Note

David Campiche wrote this essay about a prior unsuccessful — but enjoyable — salmon trip with his brother, former Pacific County Prosecutor Jeff Campiche. On their most-recent foray last week, the two caught four keepers and one fin-clipped non-hatchery Chinook that was returned to the water.

Sunrise broke atop Mount St. Helens in a delicate blaze of fleshly salmon pinks. Under us, the Columbia River ebbed in a sinuous flow, as fast and strong as stampeding silver stallions.

Spring Fishery Update as of April 8

The Lower Columbia River mainstem recreational spring Chinook fishery was open March 1 – April 6. Water conditions have been favorable — low and clear — throughout the season.

Recreational fishing downstream of Bonneville

• The preliminary kept catch through April 6 is estimated to be about 5,120 adult spring Chinook from approximately 42,600 angler trips.

• Total mortalities of upriver-origin spring Chinook in the fishery through April 6 are estimated to be 4,102 adult Chinook, or 105% of the 3,913 available to this fishery prior to a run update.

• Given there is no balance remaining on the upriver spring Chinook pre-run-update guideline, additional harvest opportunity is not anticipated until after an upriver run size update is provided by the U.S. v. Oregon Technical Advisory Committee, which typically occurs by mid-May.

Select Area Commercial Fisheries

• Select Area winter season commercial fisheries are currently scheduled through April 15 with restricted times and area. Spring season fisheries are scheduled to open April 18.

• Winter season landings through April 1 totaled 844 spring Chinook — double the recent five-year to-date average — and 35 white sturgeon.

I was busy smearing anchovy scent onto a shiny florescent flatfish, and stopped for a second, searching for word or image to define the big river and its landscape. Here, off a sandy beachhead on Puget Island, in the middle of the Columbia: umami. That word came to mind, a meld of friends, places, lovely moments, and, well, perfect food. I was under the expectation that we would soon catch the allusive spring-run Chinook, the tastiest salmon of all. Catch it and later prepare the succulent red flesh — simply, quickly, and splendidly. That didn’t exactly happen, but a human can dream, unfettered by reality.

“If wishes were horses, then beggars could ride.” That was my father speaking, not a prescient man, but wise. And I was fishing with my younger brother, a fine attorney who should have been a fishing guide. The man is at one with nature.

The morning began as night: dark as the fur of a mink. Four-in-the-morning, a pot of black coffee and an hour’s drive to the busy port of Cathlamet — that was our destination. In the same darkness, I managed to scratch the side of my brother’s car on the edge of a parked boat trailer. The place was like a busy airport. Jeff was forgiving. I was chagrined. In another 30 minutes we dropped anchor, baited the lines, and began to wait — a fisherman’s ultimate fate.

While we waited, we talked. An eagle soared overhead, its wingspan certainly close to six feet. The cottonwoods were blooming — announcing, as they do, the arrival of springtime. Yes, it was cold in dawn’s early light. More boats arrived, including a boyhood friend from South Bend. We tied our boats together and fished off the sterns. Gossip, political forays and tall tales danced between the watercraft.

We ate pate sandwiches with Provolone, and guzzled two thermos bottles full of black coffee. Still no fish. The sun rose higher in the sky, a blue-bird day, for sure. No strikes. Talk turned to health care — there certainly was no resolution here. But friends can argue and stay friends, and perhaps we learned from each other. The boat behind us netted a lovely six-pound hen. We were all happy to see the activity. Along the beach, the tide was exposing more and more sand. Pewter-hued drift logs dotted the tidal landscape. Two more eagles flew overhead. We ate another sandwich.

The beheaded mountain was striking in the sunlight. I couldn’t help but to remember climbing to the summit of the perfect dome, years ago, before the eruption. Then, the climb was arduous, the vista stunning. On such a morning human potential seemed undaunted. This morning glowed with that same optimism. Nature can do that. So can the promise of salmon.

We began to peel off extra layer of clothes, protection against a spring frost that never materialized. The wind sauntered from the east. The water was smooth and consoling. But no fish. No matter, the fishermen were happy. Happy except for the whine of 4-wheeled ATVs racing along the beach opposite us, those engines hammering home a high-pitched racket that threatened the Zen-calm of currents: the river, breeze in cottonwoods, and a new cooler wind that began to pulse from the west. Clouds were scudding upriver as we pulled anchor.

Back at the docks, a game officer informed us that 30 salmon had been caught and registered that day. We didn’t feel unlucky. We felt blessed. Driving home my brother kept spouting effusively about the natural beauty of the valleys we crisscrossed as we drove toward the Peninsula: Grays, Deep River and Naselle, lush with early spring growth, three rivers snaking through, spangling like a silver chain burnished by sunlight.

A herd of elk meandered across a verdant pasture. We stopped and watched. Now the sky turned leaden. By the time we reached Willapa Bay, the rain began to drop, first in lean intermittent drops, and then, the full meal deal. We didn’t mind. We had been fishing together, brothers and friends. Sitting in our boat, I had imagined the Chinook, they in their handsome cedar craft, talking, laughing, bragging. The river ebbing or flooding. Multitudes of eagles and geese. A Swainson hawk, gyrating in wide sky circles, rising with the updraft. Soaring. Soaring.

Suddenly, I didn’t have to imagine another time and place. The moment was ours, ours to share, here and now, and so close to home.