I drift away up a side channel, a sinuous little braid enclosed by head-high grass and alders. It's not safe--the smell of bear is everywhere, but Mark was up here a few minutes ago, and from the bank, you can see pretty far upstream. It's like fishing a tiny creek back home in Montana, with big scour holes near overhanging banks, and a series of shoals, except that there are three foot long chum salmon everywhere, and way more bear sign. I drop the bead rig directly behind a couple of spawning fish and let it tumble along the gravels (I've added a split shot, BB-sized, a foot above the bead). This time, I'm so close that I see the flash of the Dolly as it hits the bead, and I rear back on the rod to set the hook. The fish flies off the gravel shoal and bores down into the scour hole, abandons that route and comes straight out of the water going downstream. I'm holding on, putting a lot of pressure on the heavy leader, bound to stop the fish from going around the corner to the main creek. It's no real contest--it's an 18-or 19-inch fish--but as I bring it to hand and jerk the little hook out of its jaw, I feel pure glory raining down all around me. To be alone here, on this braid, in this valley, with all these fish, is like a dream. I take off my sunglasses and put them on my hat--the day is already dark enough, and I'm not obsessively seeking the next fish, at least for a few minutes. On my next cast, I stick the hook in a big chum that I did not see, and it moves inexorably upstream to a log jam. I point the rod at it, lock one hand over the reel, and feel the line pop a few inches above the bead. Game over for the time being.