In the morning, an Indian boat builder and a quiet, intense young brave took Rob and me downriver through a soft mist. Among our cargo was a single-shot 12-gauge, a box of paper shells, a machete and several fly rods-one that was very soft along with two 10-weights. The boat builder ran us close to the bank as he and the younger man intensely searched the trees. The driver stopped suddenly under an overhanging tree bearing bright yellow berries, and the bowman cut off a bunch with the machete. Then we drifted down to a run, which flowed under the same kind of tree. The bowman hooked a berry through its leathery peel, lobbed it out behind him and used a native water haul to launch it under the tree. The berry drifted into an eddy, and a huge, moon-shaped fish sipped it as gently as a cutthroat taking a Trico. The bowman struck viciously, and the fish surged upstream so fast the canoe whipped around into the current. Grabbing the machete, he raised the rod high and dealt the fish a lethal blow before plopping it at my feet. It looked uncannily like a big permit, except that it sported a bottom row of horse teeth.