The roar of the motor preceded the scream of wind and shower of leaves, I broke left but evasion was useless, I’d received the Blessing of the Brownline – fertilizer dispensed via propwash – a gift from a leering ex-Warthog pilot, wrestling with his post-conflict internal demons.

The Blessing is why I retain a glossy full head of hair, it’s been fertilized, parted, and mowed regularly.

The really vile chemicals come later, as does my “full camo” ensemble, I dart from bush to brush and everyone assumes I’m just a bit zealous stalking fish. They miss the frightened glances skyward until the howl of Herr Rittmeister’s brightly colored monoplane dispenses an oily blast of fish-based fertilizer-substance.

A Stinger would be really useful, but I’m outgunned. I part the forest with my best oaths, and hope to Christ there’s nobody walking their dog within earshot – as they’d be a pillar of salt.

The creek bottom is barren of vegetation leaving me a porcine, slow moving target, we’re sure to see explosive growth in the next couple of weeks compliments of the Yellow Baron.

I rinsed the exposed flesh in creek water – swapping certain death for  disfigurement and continued my northward trek to survey what the runoff had brought me. All the really disgusting stuff is bobbing in San Francisco Bay by now – leaving a pristine creek full of snapped timber, root balls, and flattened vegetation.

Flattened and fertilized vegetation.

At the limit of the upstream section there’s a new beach compliments of a fresh deposit of gravel, and the rest of the creek was scoured much deeper. Lots of new holding water, plenty of deep slots cut along banks, and I’m left thinking the current version is superior to last year’s shallow flavor.

I saw my first fish on mile three, which is normal for Spring. Aided by dam release and winter floods the creek can grow to a thousand times its normal size, which purges everything that can’t hide, isn’t nailed down, or attached to a bridge.

A couple dozen large Pikeminnow and the occasional smallmouth were browsing in deep water – and without any vegetation available to hold insects, and with the catastrophic upheaval of the runoff, I guessed  these might be hungry and desperate fish.

I had a fistful of the “Ellis Island” reject flies I needed to expend and plopped an Olive unknown into the water above them. With a 4mm bead and 25 turns of fuse wire there was a corresponding mushroom cloud and crater in the river bottom – and most of the fish scattered.

I gave it a quick tug to free the fly and all hell broke loose, some silver flash comes out of the water and does its best Salmonid imitation, screams off downstream and returns to sulk.

I’m long past caring what it is – and from it’s profile it appears to be a trophy Pikeminnow – but thick and fat like a bass, not skinny and cylindrical like usual.

It’s laying in the slack water at the bank, and I realize it’s the new IGFA world record for Sacramento Pikeminnow. The old version was merely 6.25 pounds – and “Mr. Chunk Monster”, the genetically blessed fatty was likely to tip them scales closer to seven.

After I kicked it seven or eight times I noticed it was bleeding profusely from the gills, and now I’m torn … do I rush into Raley’s Meats with a dripping cockroach and insist on fame everlasting, or release it and live in obscurity forever?

… and what kind of fame does an IGFA accredited World Record Pikeminnow really bring? Kissing babies and cutting ribbons, Paris Hilton on one arm, little mean-spirited rat dog clutched uncomfortably to my bosom, or is it really infamy, the kid with the largest unsightly blemish caused by ingestion of a single candy bar?

Fearing the outcry of concerned Singlebarbed readers, and knowing how my one small ray of sunlight would be morphed into a hideous crime, the prospect of dampening some Louisville Maple on the prone and defenseless genetic-super-specimen, froze me into immobility.

It regarded me with baleful yellow eyes, suggesting my ashes will trickle off that pristine Sierra mountainside, I’ll wind up a mayfly – and we’d take up this issue again … meanwhile I’m dribbling hollow points into my service revolver wondering whether they’ll show on the cover shot, whether they’ll just go through one side and rattle around a little – and can Fly Fisherman airbrush ’em out like Playboy?

If I’d had a garlic field close I might have been emboldened, but Chunk Monster is breathing atmosphere just fine and looks like he’s finished resting and is about to chase me back to the car.

I eased the hook out and watched him disappear into the murk.

It ain’t the Hoh River, but if I’d yelled loud enough a couple would’ve showed …