Those very fish, our guide explained, had been born in that very river. They’d hatched, then fled out to estuaries, then eased out to sea, where they’d eaten like kings. At last, they were returning home to complete the cycle, but this time, they could not pause to ease into the river, so they could not digest freshwater food. They’d eaten their last meal before starting the journey. Now their bodies were eating themselves.

This is why our spawning salmon had changed color. They were absorbing their own light-reflecting scales for spare nutrients, in turn stripping away their skin’s protective film, in turn exposing them to fungal infections and exposing their flesh. “You see,” said our guide, “they aren’t turning that color. They’re revealing that color.” We were just seeing what had been there all along.

I guess I’d known a little about how salmon found their original spawning ground, how that was some kind of mystery or something. It’s their sense of smell, I think. Maybe their own magnetic brains, I can’t remember. I knew they swam upriver. I knew at least that much. I’d seen the inspirational posters and the National Geographic photos of hungry bears, but those photographers edit out the decay and demise. They do not show the luster caving in on itself, the flesh rotting on bone. Males will change shape. They’ll grow humpbacks and fangs. Their bodies are preparing to fight to the death for their little zygotes, if that’s what it takes.

Learning this made me sick to my stomach. I remember reeling in my line, wanting nothing to do with the hunt. My father—he responded differently. He cackled until he coughed up a mouthful of phlegm, which he spit into a handkerchief, which he then tucked back into his pocket. He looked me in the eye, and—I’ll never forget it—he said, “That’s fatherhood for you, Son. Turns the best of us into monsters.”

Our guide backpedaled by explaining how most fish actually eat their young, which didn’t exactly lighten the tone, but it did give me an excuse to look away from my father, who had succumbed to another coughing fit. He’d be dead from advanced chronic obstructive pulmonary disease in six months.

I’m not a monster.

I’m a good man and an excellent father, but I’m no sadomasochist, and I can call a spade a spade. Jonah is bored. Nick is uninterested. I’m tired of waiting. After a couple of hours, when it becomes clear that fish aren’t willing to help the three of us bond, I give up and say, “Reel ’em in.”

The boys don’t hesitate. At least I tried. I raise my arm and wave back to the McAlister party waving at me from across the bay.

Luna