Y'see, although S. was born and raised in Puyallup, he and his family moved away to California and spent over 40 years out of state. When they finally decided to move "home" again, one of the first things my soon-to-be friend wanted to do was take a small inventory of the local fish. Geared up with the fare which had served him well in California, he chose Alder Lake for his initial piscatorial adventure. On the cold March morning when he parked his rig in Elbe, the lake was open but the Nisqually River which feeds it was not, and as you all know, I'm a stickler for abiding by the rules. To gain access to the lake itself, it was necessary to walk about a quarter mile on the river shingle to reach the mouth where it was legal to fish, and it was at that self-same mouth where he caught his first glimpse of what he thought was a small Oriental man with a line in the water. At approximately the same moment, I noticed an older man studying the river as if he purposed to take a few out-of-season cutthroat. I kept my eye on him as he edged closer.
It wasn't too long before we each realized our mistakes. I was neither Oriental nor a man, and after spotting me engaged in my deliberate business, he abandoned all intention to fish the river despite the fact that a local storekeeper had erroneously informed him that it was "open below the bridge." A fisherman worth his salt on new turf always pumps any available "local" for techniques and tips! I invited him to fish beside me, and after a survey of his tackle box, I gave him bait and lures and proceeded to show him how it ought to be done. The only problem was that the fish were being decidedly uncooperative.
We fished for an hour or so with no luck, and then suddenly something took my bait and ran with it. I could tell it was a big fish, and with nothing yet in my creel, I desperately wanted to land it, if only so I could gloat. I played it skillfully, but as I got it closer to shore, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that my companion was edging closer to me. "Oh, no!" I thought. "He's going to grab my line and try to help!" My attention shifted from the fish to him although I kept reeling, and when I felt tension on the line, I looked down to see a magnificent cutty wedged between two rocks. My compatriot took another step toward me and I reacted instinctively with an upward jerk of the rod which I hoped would beach my prize. I heard a "Ping!" as the line parted. Dazed, the fish hesitated and I made a dive for it...all too literally. I stepped on a rock which rolled, and I went face-first in the lake, emerging without a single dry spot on me except the top of my hat. The fish fled in panic, and who could blame it?
With that having been the only bite I'd had in several hours, I told my companion that I was going to go home and change clothes. It was rather too chilly, and a stout wind had come up as well. As I began to leave, he stepped into my spot and almost immediately had another bite. The cutties had waked up and wanted breakfast! I would have been a poor fisherman indeed if I'd left at that point, so I took up a new station. Several fish later, my friend noticed that I was shivering violently, so he bundled me in his jacket. We continued to fish until I had a limit of five and he was content with four fine trout. Regrettably, none was as big as "the one that got away," but we were both happy.
On the walk back to the car, this man I had never before met asked me a question, "Would you like to go fishing with me again some time?" and although I have fished alone for most of my life, I replied, "Yeah, I think I'd enjoy that."
Together, the two of us have fished with the fly, chucked PowerBait and drowned worms at almost all the lakes within a 25-mile radius over the last ten years. Our friendship is solid as a rock. If falling in a lake headfirst is what it takes to find a fishing buddy as good as S., I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat.
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