I can hang on to my fishing pole, but other problems do crop up. This must have been in about '95 or '97, the last really big run of pinks on the Skagit. Me and my two fishing buddies were fishing off this bunch of old dead trees about the size of telephone poles, all jamed together at wierd angles. I was up on a good perch about 8'10 feet above the river and hooked into a good sized pink. After a short tussle, he swam underneath me and I peaked out for a look to see what he was up to. Putting most of my weight on the last tree in front of me, which up till then had seemed pretty solid, I got a lot closer look than I was planning on. My buddies say I screamed like a cat in heat as I summer-saulted into the Skagit. I hung on to my rod and grabbed onto my perscription glasses as they came off my face, but I lost my favorite hat. Got that darn fish, but chuckling could be heard down the river bank for about an half an hour. That river is cold, even in August.