Last spring Rainbow's End Bed & Breakfast in Challis, Idaho sponsored a big fish contest on the Salmon River. The grand prize was a new rod and reel and a wide assortment of lures and flies. Since it wasn't hunting season, I was bored because there was nothing to hunt. I pulled out my old dusty rod and reel, cleaned it up, oiled the reel, put on a new spool of fishing line and sharpened up a few hooks. Out to the river I went to try and win a new rod and reel because mine had seen better days. I had heard the locals talk about a legendary fish, nicknamed Logger, that many had hooked, but no one had landed. As the story goes, he got his name because whenever he was hooked he wrapped the line around a log and jumped in the air to free himself. Logger was a giant male rainbow with a bunch of lures hanging from a big hooked jaw, souvenirs of past victories. He would taunt the fishermen by strutting with his trophies as if they were Olympic medals.

I used to get lonely when I went hunting and fishing by myself, so I got a new hound to keep me company. Her name is Thumper. No, she's not a rabbit. She's a Plott and Black and Tan cross. She has a beautiful black shiny coat and big brown eyes. She likes to sleep with her feet sticking straight up in the air and doubles as a bed warmer when you're camping.

At the crack of dawn Thumper and I headed for the magic hole on the Salmon River right below Fuller Gulch. It was a cold morning, but there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The water conditions were perfect, and there was a brisk breeze clearing up the light frost. The riffle in the bend of the river showed promise. As usual, I had my hopes up. This would be the day that Logger met his doom.

My first few casts hooked a few small energetic fish of no consequence. For an hour it seemed like I caught a fish every single cast, trying everything in my tackle box to lure a big one. There were too many juvenile fish in the river; I would never hook Logger at this rate. I put my pole down and lit up my pipe to consider a new strategy. I asked myself, "What am I going to do?" I found myself talking to the dog, "Thumper, what should we do next?"

Thumper walked over to my open tackle box and sniffed at a lure that a friend gave me as a joke, "A Kitchen Sink." It was a five-inch white porcelain sink with four-spoke handles and a huge treble hook. So I said to Thumper, "Well, why not, we have tried everything else." Even though I felt foolish, I tied it to the end of my line.

The sun had broken through the tops of the trees and it was warming up. The shade that was covering the other edge of the bank was gone and I could see a big, dark stump, three to four feet long, lying in the bottom of the river. I assumed that high water had washed the stump in. What a perfect place for a fish to hide! When I cast my line, the weight of the lure bent my rod and I was afraid it would break. However, it was heavy enough that it was the longest cast I ever made, making it all the way across the river so it drifted right by the stump. Rats! The longest cast of my life snags the stump! For 10 minutes, I jerked on the pole and line, moving up and down river trying to get it dislodged. I was able to see the lure in the water, white against the dark stump. I jerked on it so many times that the stump broke loose and started floating down river, peeling off all my line.

Now, not only am I going to lose my lure, but all my line. Once it hit the fast water in the riffle I would be in trouble. I would have to start all over again with new line and lure. I gave it one, last, desperate giant tug. My pole broke in two and then, all of a sudden, the stump came to life. Holy Hannah! it's Logger! My pole was broken in two and Logger was making a beeline to his escape. He was running up river with his dorsal fin cutting through the water creating a wake like a motor boat. The power of his thrashing tail was making white water. Thumper was running back and forth on the bank, baying at the frenzied activity. My pole might be broken, but when I put on the new fishing line, I used 30-pound test. I was hoping this would be enough to hold on to Logger, but by his size I had my doubts.

The situation reminded me of a Keystone cops skit. If I only had a video, I'd be a multi-millionaire selling this to The Outdoor Channel. I kept reeling frantically trying to take up all the slack. The moment he made his leap four feet into the air to snap the line, I jerked the pole with all my strength to pull him back in my direction. In the sunlight I saw all the lures hanging from his jaw, and realized he was as battle scarred as if he had gone 10 rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson. His leap of faith was unsuccessful. With a tremendous splash, he fell short of his goal.

Now Logger was in panic mode and made his fatal mistake. He shot across the river and beached himself on the gravel covered sand bar. Thumper wanted to join the game. She leapt off the bank into the river, swam out to the sand bar and put a death grip on Logger's neck like a Pit Bull in a fight. She held him long enough for me to jump in the river as I continued to reel to prevent the hook from coming loose.

Logger was making a run for it, wiggling his way back into the water. Thumper was still hanging on. She knew she had a trophy. The hook came loose and I was about five feet away. I lunged like I was making a desperation tackle to save the Super Bowl Championship. I grabbed Logger. Thumper and I were both hanging on. The three of us were thrashing around in the river. While I was still on my knees, I was able to stick my hand in its gill plate and pull its head out of the water. The old lures snagged my hands. Thumper was still holding on and I was dragging them both out of the water. I freed the hooks using needlenose pliers.