The largest of the Pacific salmon, this fish is the big brother of the family. It can reach over a metre in length and weigh nearly 30 kilograms. A thick muscular body carries small dark spots on the back and tail. In the ocean, the colour is silvery-blue. When running up rivers to spawn, it turns deep brick red. The fish changes its clothes for the occasion. It is an athlete among introduced species. Most of its life is spent in the ocean. There it feeds on small fish, squid and krill, growing fat and strong. Then an ancient instinct takes hold. Feeding stops. It swims up the same river where it was born. Rapids are fought. Waterfalls are leaped. Shallow gravel beds are pushed through. Not a single thing is eaten. By the time the spawning grounds are reached, the fish is running on empty. It is a suicide mission dressed in red. For New Zealand anglers, it is the holy grail. Harder to catch than Atlantic salmon, it fights harder and tastes better. The flesh is deep rich orange-red, packed with oil and flavour. This is the fish that dreams are made of. To catch one is to win the lottery. It makes a person forget all the cold wet mornings spent standing in a river, casting into nothing. It is the fish of the Canterbury rivers. It keeps the fly fishermen coming back, year after year. They hope for a glimpse of that big red wild king. The river roars. The salmon leaps. The line goes tight. For a moment, nothing else exists. Then the fish is gone, or it is in the net. The story begins. The story is the point. The fish is just the excuse.