Its 5:00 a.m. when your alarm clock sounds and wakes you from your bunk. The sun is exactly where you left it 4 hrs ago. You throw a jacket over the same old flannel shirt that you've worn for a week straight and pour some coffee as you suit up in your still damp waders that smell of sweaty socks and deet. You run the jet boat down to the confluence and drop anchor just upstream of the visible divide between clear river and silty glacier water. Your 10 wt rod becomes an extension of your arm that ends with a 400 grain sink tip, a 20 lb mono leader, and the ugliest pink and purple fly known to man. Just as you begin to relax and look up to observe a bald eagle flying overhead, you sense your drift suddenly stop dead in its downstream swing and come tight on what feels like a waterlogged tree stump. But then it moves...and then it shakes. The tree stump you are hooked into then boils at the surface, and you notice it has fins, bright chrome flesh, and a body that is truly the size of your leg.