It was a day of ups and downs.

Fishing the Yakima, I saw a lot of bald eagles, even heard them talking to each other. (They communicate in feeble little screeches, sounding embarrassed, self-conscious, in need of assistance, pubescent, a little bit afraid.) An otter slithered into the river, probably chasing the very trout I was trying to catch. Ducks and geese swam around, looking almost like they were trying to escape their young.

I also saw, at a considerable distance, a large four-legged animal. I was walking west on the long trail back to my car. He was west of me by at least 100 yards, the sun setting behind him. He walked out onto the trail and was a black silhouette in profile. I stopped; so did he. I heard myself say, “Oh, f***.” Then I reached for my camera. Then I walked forward; I couldn’t remember which dangerous animals respond to us playing the aggressor and which ones want us to be docile. I wished very much that I had the pistol I used to carry in my waders back in Wisconsin. (Wishing did not produce the pistol.) I took the large hunting knife out of my vest and out of its old black leather case and held it in my hand. Some automatic part of my brain asked if there was an alternate route back to the car, but the rest of my brain knew there was not. I wondered if the GoreTex of my waders would offer any protection from the claws of a cougar.

When I first saw the animal, I thought it was a fox. Then I thought, No, that’s much too big for a fox. Then I moved on to coyote or wolf. Then I hoped deer, which I see frequently along this stretch of river. But I know deer. They are tall and leggy. This animal was lower to the ground. Deer let their guard down when they don’t know they’re being watched; they become a little clumsy and even playful. This animal seemed to know I was there from the second he walked out onto the trail. He moved like a predator, none of the tentativeness of a deer. He was not clumsy. Or playful.

Fishing. It was the type of day when you know, within the first hour, that you will be fortunate to catch even one trout. The sun was bright in a clear blue sky and the weather just seemed confused, one of those days where it’s somehow hot and cold at the same time (trout like stability). And then there was the wind. The good ol’ relentless, merciless, malignant, exhale-of-the-antichrist, barely sub-hurricane-level Yakima wind. It means no bugs hatching, and that means no fish rising. And in my experience on the Yakima, no fish rising means trouble.

I reached a breaking point mid-afternoon. As I walked up onto a sandbar to sit down and eat an apple and wonder whether to call it a day, I saw a splash in a bubble line 20 yards upstream. I thought little of it, because the wind had been creating these splashes all day long. But I kept my eye on that spot as I ate my apple, and then I saw the body of a trout arcing out of the water. And then several more, all in that same small stretch of water adjacent to a fallen tree. Some of the rises were small, but some were more serious. I thanked God and thought about what a lucky man I was, and that was a bit of a mistake because for the rest of the day I could not rid myself of that song, “Ooooo, what a lucky man…he was!”

Spirit revived, I got into position and began to cast. I was using a caddis emerger fly and using it only on a hunch. There were very few bugs in the air, and what bugs there were got launched into the ether by the next gust. What I’m trying to say is, there was really no way to know what those fish were eating. And, for that matter, why they were eating on or near the surface of the river when every other trout in the river was going nowhere near the top. If you have absolutely no idea what they’re eating, it’s hard to know what fly to use. So I went with the caddis emerger. Because why not.

On my first couple of casts, nothing happened. My heart sank a bit. On the next cast, I missed a fish, and this is something worth talking about because it happens to me often. What I’d like to know is: did the fish intend to eat my fly and miss? Did the fish realize at the last possible second that my fly was not a delicious snack but a bunch of yarn and thread hiding a laser-sharpened hook and arranged to imitate an emerging caddis fly? If that latter scenario is the case, there are good reasons, and primary among them is what we fly-fishermen call “drag.” The other reason I might miss fish, especially the first fish of the day: I get too excited and set the hook before the trout has actually taken the fly. Which leads to something that always amazes me: as many fish as I’ve caught, adrenaline always takes over at that moment and makes everything a total blur. (I’m seriously considering getting a GoPro Camera so I can record the catching of a trout and play it back in slow motion. I need to study my own fishing.)

When I finally caught the fish (and then another a short time later), I felt the kind of excitement usually reserved for catching much bigger trout. The fish was no trophy, but I had fought hard for it. I remembered a similar day on Wisconsin’s South Branch of the Oconto, my all-time favorite river. I had fished all morning and been skunked. No sign of a fish anywhere — no strikes, no rises, nothing. Finally I sat down on a rock in the middle of the river. I took off my vest and my hat and my glasses and I splashed the cold, clean water on my face. It was a hot day in mid-July. I drank some bourbon from my trusty green Stanley flask. I closed my eyes and tried to appreciate the sun on my face. I wanted to get to that feeling of gratitude for being on a good river. Not at work, not among hordes of hurrying people, just sitting on a rock in the sun in a beautiful place with a cold, clean stream flowing by. I tried to slow down my mind. I had told myself that after my mind slowed down, if I still wanted to give up on the day, I could do it with a clear conscience. But once my mind got in line, I realized I wanted to keep fishing. I suppose I just had a feeling. Shortly thereafter, against all fishing logic, I caught the best brown trout of my life on a dry fly at high noon on a hot July day. I still can’t believe it. Just the other night, here in Seattle three years later, that scene played out on the backs of my eyelids as I was falling asleep in my chair. This happens often.

Back on the Yakima, I should have called it quits after my two trout. Instead I kept after it for several more hours, not willing to leave well enough alone. My encounter with the backlit beast was an unsettling end to the day, one final battle with the elements of nature and the elements inside of my head.

One night after work this week I drove over to the Yakima. Raced out of the building at 5 p.m. sharp and was on the river by 6:45. It was a perfect night, calm and warm and a little bit overcast. There were mayflies coming off and I felt sure I would catch trout. I fished until 9 and caught nothing. As I was nearing the end of the light, I saw two fish rise, and I spent the rest of my time casting to them. Never saw them again.

Nor did I see any beasts.