As the sun set, we packed our poles into the Syncro and followed the windy road up the White Salmon River. After ten minutes, Steve pointed to a large pull-off and motioned to stop.
"Crap, looks like we won't be alone," he said in reference to the two pickups parked along the metal guardrail as I rolled to a stop and pulled the parking break.
Grabbing out waders and rods, we quickly made our way down the rough trail towards the sound of rapids and the cool breeze of snow-melt river. Staking out our positions along the water in a clear but inaudible negotiation, we readied our gear and cast into the current.
Familiar with our surroundings and excited to a freenzy by chatter from the other fishermen that Steelheads were already this far up the river, Steve and my mom cast repeatedly into the rapids, hoping to the catch the season's first fish. I, on the other hand, watched for the occasional dive of a nearby Osprey and listened to the gurgle of the water rushing around a rock. Distracted by my surroundings, I was content to simply be back in the water.
Despite the differences in our attentions and number of lines casted, we all fared the same. Not so much as a nibble. As the last rays of light faded, we marched up the hill back towards the road, each one of us smiling for our own reason.
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