This is power-fish fishing: long runs, heavy splashes, the feeling that you are hooked fast to some elemental power of the universe. I'm using a leader cut back to at least 10-pound test, so I have room for error, room to figure out to put the pressure on. I experiment, and the rod--an old Cortland 7 weight--groans a bit. I drop the tip and pull sideways to try and turn the run, and the fish does turn, just short of a shoal and a debris-covered strainer. The humpy that finally comes to hand is a marvel, fresh from the salt, a strange muscled form, giant hooked jaws, the odd calligraphy of black circles on its silver-green back. I unhook it and it blasts away, still headed upstream, even in the thinnest shallows--the upstream imperative, a mandate from Time itself.