Getting the perfect picture takes persistence
The stats were a little staggering, which they tend to be when you talk about time and how life happens.
My brother Mark and I grew up fishing the Klawock River for pinks before we knew better, and silvers once we figured things out.
He graduated high school and left. I did the same. His naval obligations kept him away during the summers I returned. From when he graduated in 1996 until this weekend, we had fished together three times - an ocean trip off Prince of Wales in 2006, a few days in the summer of 2008 and Guam in 2010.
So when Mark brought his family up, we had plans, but it wasn't just about us. We'd get a fish, put it in his son Benjamin's hands and get the photo of the year.
My nephew, Benjamin, is not quite a 4-year-old and the fish I caught was a big-toothed, big-humped pink. It's kinda hip now to write about catching pinks on the fly rod because it's still a fish, and before we get too excited about judge the quality of a lesser brand, we should take a few moments to appreciate its importance.
When you're four, that importance is pretty high. All Ben saw was a massive fish come to shore, mouth forced open by the pull of the fishing line. He panicked. His frame of reference before that humpy was a toy rod pulling up plastic fish. A male river pink is the thing of nightmares.