We’re standing on the bridge leaning over the rail. The light is sending bright sparkles back into the sky, into my eyes. We’ve come to watch Harold Joe fish. He’s got a long double tipped spear, it’s maybe 12 feet long, one end is on the rail in front of us, one behind.<\/p>\n
The Cowichan river runs below us, not saying much. I squint into the water, but I can’t make out the steelhead below. Harold tells us to move down a little, not too fast. Then he takes the spear and hurls it into the water. There’s a big splash, but the fish – which I still can’t see – is gone.<\/p>\n
I climb down under the bridge, the rocks are a little slippery with ice because it’s cold in the shadows. Along the edge of the river there’s the perfect spine of a fish, maybe 18 inches long. There’s no head left, but all the fine feathery ribs are intact, it’s surprisingly delicate and pretty lying on the chocolate colored sand of the river bank. There’s some gold grass and the river smells like water, like wet dirt.<\/p>\n
Back up on the bridge, Kurt Schmidt<\/a>, our guide for the day, says “What do you think about fish and chips?” Harold stows his spear. The four of us climb into the car and we head into the town of Cowichan Bay<\/a> to eat lunch. In the car on the way to town, Harold tells us that one time, he caught 45 salmon in a single day. “45 salmon!” I think, and not long after, I order chowder for lunch.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" We’re standing on the bridge leaning over the rail. The light is sending bright sparkles back into the sky, into my eyes. We’ve come to watch Harold Joe fish. He’s got a long double tipped spear, it’s maybe 12 feet long, one end is on the rail in front of us, one behind. The Cowichan … <\/p>\n