One of the joys of being a parent is watching your kids' triumphs. And if those successes happen in places where the rivers are full of fish, then it's a win-win road trip.

Such was the case in early October when son Kyle and daughter Melissa ran the Portland Marathon. Both finished strong. Nan and I are extremely proud. I learned it's much less painful to watch a 26-miler than to run one.

Following the marathon, we rented a cottage in Pacific City, Ore., where the Nestucca River dumps into the Pacific Ocean. According to fishing reports, and confirmed by the guy behind the counter at the bait shop in Hebo, Chinook salmon were entering the slack water in the lower river.

Kyle and I wanted to fly fish for salmon about 10 miles from the salt. On our drive we passed a couple dozen drift boats. Kyle is into two-handed spey casting, so while he roll-cast his beadhead fly below a big bobber, I lobbed a 3-way rig with a pink-yarn egg pattern on an 8-weight one-hander.

We fished the edges of fast water below deep riffles and saw quite a few large salmon rolling on the surface. I know my fly was bouncing on the bottom when I snagged a spent salmon carcass in the mouth. The dead weight dragged my line downstream, and the rod bent majorly when I pulled the remains of the fish upstream. Man, did it stink.

Within minutes, I landed and released a 6-inch steelhead smolt. A few casts later, when my line should have been drifting downstream, it went upstream. I raised the rod tip and a 20-plus pound Chinook salmon exploded out of the water, swam upstream a few yards, exploded out again, dove upstream, and on the third jump, my line went slack.

We both hooked salmon but didn't land any lunkers. Drift fishermen dunking chunks of roe beneath huge foam bobbers were catching salmon, up to 30 pounds, we heard.

If I went back, I'd dunk roe with a casting rod until I landed one large salmon, then I'd go right back to fly fishing. What a kick. And I didn't have to run 26 miles.