In 2020, deep in an early June blizzard on the Salmon River, I spotted a dark silhouette hunkered along the river bottom. As runoff had already peaked due to a small snowpack and warm weather, the river was unseasonably low and clear for this time of year. Though the river was nowhere near wadable, the fishing was promising. For three years, I had been chasing the elusive bull trout—a fish that haunted my dreams due to its size and sheer predatory force. The summer prior, I had felt the rush of a 24-inch-plus bullie tug at my line, only for my adrenaline spike to turn into pure disappointment as it hit a death roll and popped off.

Now, I had my redemption. I gave a swift upstream cast. One, two, three seconds for the streamer to sink and begin its dance along the river bottom. The fly chugged ahead, and once it got within eyesight of the dark shadow, I hit it with two hard strips. POW. The trout rushed and hit the fly like a linebacker, and I was off to the races.

My reel spun out of control as the bull trout leaped from plunge pool to plunge pool downstream. Frantically hopping over rocks, I cranked my reel—now deep in the backing—doing everything in my ability to keep the faintest bit of tension on the line. I scurried downstream, holding my breath in anxiety that this opportunity would end as suddenly as my last chance. But this time, the story ended differently.

I managed to contain the fish in a whirlpool of an eddy until both it and I were on our final leg. That’s when I got my first real glimpse of the monstrosity—a mouth that could devour a six-inch trout in one gulp surfaced out of the water. This was my fish. I took the final turns of the reel, knowing that a trout a few feet away is just as likely to be lost as one 50 yards out. Those last seconds were a blur, until then I looked down and saw a 26-inch bull trout resting in my net.

Hours of walking the river and taking solemn, fishless drives home were behind me. This is the fly fishing memory I cherish the most.