It was flashlights, again, as we dressed and gathered up our gear for the day. Don slid the motel door closed and we eased into our vehicles. Following Don's cue, we started our motors and idled out of the parking lot with our lights off. I followed him in a crazy race to the river, down the inevitable muddy, pot-holed road, and onto a gravel bar. Not another car in sight. Stepping out of the car into darkroom black, I could hear the rumble of breakers, and smell the heavy salt air blanketing as a thin fog. We loaded our gear into the prams and pushed off, rowing upriver. At least now Don allowed me to speak out loud. I followed his sweeping flashlight for about ten minutes, then he began idling in one place, flashing on the shoreline, moving a bit with his oars, flashing again. He dropped one anchor, flashed on the shoreline, raised the anchor, moved, flashed again. "We've got to be in just the right spot. You're either fishingin "the bucket", or you're out of it altogether", he explained. He shifted three more times, checking the distant shore line each time. The last time he shifted, I swear, one foot. "O.K., now anchor right next to me." It took me ten, minutes and tries, to get it to Don's satisfaction. I dropped the second, stern anchor, waited for a minute for further instructions, then tied it off. Now what? "Now we wait." I looked at my watch. It was 3:30 AM, in mid-october. Daylight was a long way off. We had definitely "beaten everyone to the hole". "I left enough room between us so if Bill Schaadt shows up, we can squeeze him in. Do you know Bill Schaadt?" I didn't, personally, but anyone who has read Russell Chatham's wonderful "Anglers Coast" knows Bill; two chapters were devoted to him. Bill is a legendary, near mythical personage, both loved and hated, among north coast anadramous fly fishermen. He is the fishing equivalent of a middle ages monk, who, having taken a vow of poverty, wanders in scavenging fashion, practising his chosen religion. Bill has devoted his life, or retreated from life, to a single minded pursuit of salmon and steelhead with a fly rod. I had heard several of his legends, from varied sources, all having to do with his ability, and need, to make do and carry on with no regular source of income. Such as his stripping tangled monofilament from tree branches to use for leader. Inevitably, and humanely, there is no family. And inevitably, he knows the rivers and the runs from month to month and day to day, like no one else. He is the center of massive communication network as those
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