The late Jim Eriser liked to tell the story of the time he and his brother and their families camped on the Williamson River in Oregon. They were supposed to arrive together—Jim from Southern California, his brother from somewhere in Washington State. Seems his brother's arrival was unexpectedly delayed a few days and during that time Jim, a dedicated fly fisherman, had the river all to himself. Not that the campground was devoid of other campers. Just that Jim always sought out those areas of the stream not frequented by the bait casters.

Now, being a conservation-minded fellow, Jim normally turned all his fish back. And the Williamson being the fecund stream it was and is, and Jim being the knowledgeable and successful angler he was, his days were filled with hookups and landings. Yet, the looks on the faces of those who asked "Hey, man, how'd ya do?" were gradually replaced by expressions of disbelief, even pity, when empty-handed he would reply "Just great. How 'bout you?"

The day after his brother arrived Jim headed out to the stream as usual and had another fine day. Returning home, instead of coming directly through camp, he circled around and slipped into his trailer seemingly unnoticed. A few minutes later he retraced his circuitous route, this time carrying in addition to his usual rod and other equipment, a large brown paper-wrapped package. A few minutes later he entered camp by the usual route, this time weighted down with the fresh twelve pound spring salmon his brother has brought as a gift hanging from a lanyard through its mouth and gill. To the inevitable questions, Jim never said a word. Just continued on, nodding pleasantly to those who stood with slack jaws.

Within five minutes every one of his doubters had disappeared in the direction of the Williamson, rod in hand, while Jim and his brother enjoyed a good laugh.