O'Keefe has the drags adjusted tight for hookups. "Pop him once hard, then loosen it a couple of turns. These guys need a little running room." I cast again and again, trying to follow the twinkling lure as it braids the current in and out of the shadows. Then comes a cast when the twinkling stops. An invisible man yanks hard on the rod. Then my reel squeals like a little pig tied to a big rocket. I shout and sputter things, then recover long enough to ease off on the drag and let the fish do the driving for a while. It heads into the muscle of the current and holds, moves up to the head of the pool, then turns and runs straight at me. When it sees my legs shuffling for a grip on the rock, it resorts to broken-field running. My line is scribbling something in the water, but I'm too busy to read it. Twice I almost lead it into O'Keefe's net, but each time it decides captivity is not it's all cracked up to be and sends my reel back into falsetto mode. At last we bring it into the shallows and the net. This anadromous rainbow trout is the same as any other, only three times bigger, a speckled torpedo of a fish. Get two of these babies, train them, and you could ski on their backs up and down the river like a Sea World attraction. O'Keefe pegs it at eight pounds and a "two salt" fish, meaning that after two years of ocean living, it is returning to spawn. It's fin-clipped, a hatchery fish, and therefore headed for a rendezvous with lemon, fresh pepper, and a 325-degree oven. We bonk its head on a rock and cut it into thirds to fit it into the cooler.