The Phantom Salmon of Fording Rock

Simmering, I handed the rod over to the one-armed man. “Go ahead, old codger,” I said to myself, “show me something.” The number twelve WhiteWulff fluttered in the air and settled as milk down on the center riffle of Landing Pool. Grandfather’s amber Edwards’ Quadrate was poised. Three feet of mended drift brought the expected … Continued

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