I had forsaken Minnesota's silicon tundra and the Vikings and returned home to Michigan's trout streams and the Lions, and it was only after taking up casual permanent guest style residence at Shameless Acres, Carol and Bill's summer home in Oscoda County, that I discovered my younger sister and I speak different languages.
Carol (we used to call her Lola after the old song . . . whatever Lola wants, Lola gets) and Bill plan major financial moves, such as an addition to the house or a new El Dorado, around trips to Las Vegas, Reno and Atlantic City. Telephone conversations with others of their culture are dominated by a coded lexicon with obvious dark significance. Double down, Black 17, Circus Circus, and Texas Hold 'Em are key elements in their strategic plan and Rose Bowl, Wolverines plus 3 for a dollar is the pinnacle of sporting magic in their lives. To me, a Princess is a treasured old English fly reel. To Carol, a Princess is a nifty hotel with a casino near the beach.
Last January, they were sitting at the kitchen table gleefully defining their roles (Bill would carry the chips and Carol would place the bets) for a forthcoming assault on some doomed establishment in Reno when the phone rang. Well hello! How have you been? I understood so far and then, predictably, . . . heavy toke and the creep burned me. . . split'em. . . five-deck shoe. . . This went on for a few minutes as my brain muddled back to the Metrodome where the Vikings had just broken my heart, again, for the twentieth consecutive year.
Screw the Vikings, I thought, I'm a Lions fan now. The Lions! Barry Sanders! Maybe next year. What if the Lions trade for a strong offensive line? What if Rodney Pete stays healthy? Rodney Pete healthy? The gray January day was clearly in control of my spirit. Rodney Pete gets hurt playing euchre and Barry Sanders would probably be recalled to his home planet. No earthling could ever move like Barry Sanders. He is not from here, and if he is as bright and thoughtful as he seems in the interviews, he won't want to stay around much longer.
I sensed rather than heard Carol's voice, Oh sure, he's right here. He's staring out the window. I think he's been tying some Fergusons, or maybe it's Swensons. That's it, emerging Swensons. Doesn't the Swenson hatch come pretty early in the season? Sure I'll get him. Hey Bob, it's Walt.
My good friend Walt of Park City, Utah is a gifted linguist, communicating airily with the gold chains and linen suits of Vegas and New Jersey as well as the flannel-clad boat slaves of the Madison and the Au Sable. Walt has a job in that he manages some restaurants, but more importantly he owns a beautiful, hand-crafted wooden drift boat and lives but three hours from Flaming Gorge and the fabulous Green River. He had cruised through a technical discussion with my little sister and then switched to a new dialect and syntax with something approaching demurred alacrity. I knew enough to be on guard.
Walt. I hear your book is finished. That's great! Carol said you've been tying Hendricksons to relax before starting the next one. (Carol said you were beginning to stare at the paneling again.)
Me. Yeah. I'm really excited about it. I'm praying that it gets good reviews and sells a million copies. (My idiot editor isn't going to release it until November.)
Walt. Say, we're expecting a great season here. Lots of snow and tourists. We're already ahead of last year and I thought maybe you'd like to come out for a few weeks. You know, relax and unwind. We could use you to fill in at the restaurants, just here and there, but mostly we'll ski, chase girls and fish the Green. (Everybody I've tried to hire to bus tables has a green card and wants too much money.)
Me. Gee, that sounds great, but I'm behind on several BFDs that need my attention. (I have absolutely nothing to do but chop ice and I'm bored stiff.)
Walt.Well the sun is shining, the Sundance Film Festival is coming up and Park City will soon be crowded with beautiful women. The Green is fishing well. Midges at the edges above Little Hole and scuds in the deep runs. (There's a shortage of dishwashers in town and I need someone to dig twelve tons of snow off my boat.)
Me. It's gorgeous here, too and the Holy Water on the Au Sable is in great shape. (I haven't seen the sun in three weeks and it's so cold here the trout wouldn't feed on Beluga caviar.)
Walt. You have chickadees, we have starlets. Consider that. I'll send you a plane ticket. Is it a deal? (I can sense he's going to take . . . )
Me. Let me think about it and call you in a day or two. (Oh God, please don't let me blow this one. My testosterone is in overdrive and I want to go fishing. Women! The Green!)
Walt. OK, I'll talk to you soon then. (Lift the rod. I got him!) Two of the three dogs executed the carom shot perfectly. Plastic trash cans spilled odorous contents onto the snow covered lawn as my canine dream team banked into the back seat of the old Suburban. Jocko, the Scottie of valiant heart and dubious IQ, settled his paws, nose, and tongue on the freshly washed window behind the drivers seat. Cobaka, my otter-like lab bitch, claimed the middle and executed a perfect, class-10 drool on the upholstery. The Cookie Monster took more time. She strolled over and examined the garbage, sniffing carefully before claiming a slimy-green, pasta-looking prize which she carried in her dignified, near royal manner to a place behind the passenger. Bill jumped behind the wheel. Well, you're set. Everything's in the car. Got your ticket? Without waiting for a reply. Let's go.
A light freezing rain slicked I-94 between Carol and Bill's home in Ypsilanti and Detroit's Metro Airport. I hope they remember to de-ice the wings, Bill offered as he bullied the truck into an opening in front of the terminal. That's very important on a day like this. Sometimes they forget, he continued. I called the weather office. It's a real mess out by Salt Lake, but you should make it. Bumpy as hell ride, I'll bet. Bill works for the airline that would soon land me and a high percentage of my worldly estate in Utah, hopefully in an organized fashion. Say, his eyes glazed over as I petted and hugged goodbyes to the dogs, you might be diverted to Las Vegas. He smiled as we shook hands.
So long, Bill, see you in a few weeks. Take good care of Jocko and the girls.
Shooter coming out, he answered. The Suburban turned out into the building airport traffic and was quickly swallowed by dark, squalling mist.
The 757 thumped hard, groaned and dropped to the point that my stomach, and several ounces of hot coffee floated at eye level. For a second. We thumped again and the coffee returned in the general direction of the tray table, missed the cup and steamed into my lap. My stomach stayed aloft which was just as well because the jet took three more violent drop-shocks in rapid succession. The first officer informed us that it would be . . . a little rough on in to Salt Lake City. . . seat belts. . . look for a smoother ride. . . blah, blah. Such flights are nearly always a supercharged catalyst to my intense and very sincere reaffirmation of faith. Hi God, I say, I'm back. I prepare a mental list of all the worthwhile charities (the ones that He really likes) that will someday benefit from my delayed fortunes, the Special Olympics, UNICEF, the University of Michigan, amateur hockey and, of course, The Anglers of the Au Sable. From my days as an altar boy I remember the mystic Latin. Ad Deum qui le tificat. . . I am healed and reborn, a prodigal son. I am a church-loving, catechism-hugging (no burgers on Friday) Catholic.
Abruptly, the plane slammed hard into a shoulder of the storm and shuddered into a struggling climb. The engines have changed pitch several times in the space of a few short seconds, and the woman across the aisle hoped aloud that the captain had a big mortgage, but not too big. I wondered if Walt would be inconvenienced by my decision to find a church, a St. Anybody, an Our Lady of Anything, buy a scapular, go to confession and volunteer to be a foster parent.
Walt waited, all tan and smile, as I wobbled off the jetway at Gate A-4. My God you're pale! He welcomed me with out-stretched hand and a quick shake. Doesn't the sun ever shine in Michigan?
No Walt, it does not. Not ever. The guy who was the distributor for Coppertone went flat broke and moved his family to Seattle.
We retrieved my luggage from the carousel and my rod case from the back wall where they had been stacked among a dozen or so day-glo ski bags. A sandy haired, deeply tanned young man in his twenties pushed a LA Rams cap back on his head, removed his sunglasses and stared pointedly at my dull olive and brown leather case.
He said something to his female companion that sounded like, Old dude, short skis, dull wrapper. He caught my eye, smiled and added Cool.
As we loaded the Saab, Walt told me that I would be the designated driver once we hit Park City. We need to stop at Sneakers. The football pool members are having their annual party and will be laying out the grids for the Super Bowl. We can grab a bite and watch the San Francisco-Dallas game.
How's the Green, I asked, Have people been taking fish? Is the flow pretty steady? Is it in good shape. . .
I don't know for sure, he interrupted. Its been awfully cold and there is a tremendous amount of snow. We'll ask some of the folks at Sneakers. We turned onto I-80 eastbound and headed up the mountain.
There did seem to be a lot of snow. The sheer canyon walls were completely covered and only a few of the largest and most angular crags pushed through to show a ragged scar of rock. Ani-mal trails came right up to the guard rails. Elk and deer had been forced to lower elevations - the suburbs of Salt Lake City. We passed several lumbering semis that strained on the steep grade.
At Emmigration Canyon, the valley's infamous haze dissipated and we broke into the piercing brilliance of the high winter Wasatch. Parley's Summit was washed in swirling, blowing clouds of drifted white scattered through with shards of miniature rainbows. The wind abated somewhat at Jeremy Ranch and the turnoff to Park City, and again the spectacular panorama burst upon us, nearly painful in its majesty and brilliance. To the east ahead of the clearing winds, I could see Park West, Park City and Deer Valley shaded in the blue-black of serious snow clouds. Sneakers' management had added a large screen TV and a dozen or so thoughtful partisans focused on Bradshaw's pre-game analysis. I was introduced around. To the non-anglers, Walt said simply that I was a hermit from northern Michigan. To those of the fly rod and trout persuasion I was presented as . . . friend Bob from the Au Sable. . . Small talk became smaller and the kick-off was imminent. Point spreads and scientific method ceased to be an issue.
I like San Francisco, I had a dream about the 49ers, I offered and several intense stares passed through me. What the hell, that's as good as anything else I've heard today, said one of the town's real estate tycoons. Me too, I'll take San Francisco, echoed the stock broker. Christ, they've got a Mormon quarterback and a Catholic quarterback. God's gotta be a 'Niner' fan, offered the bartender. There was a quick huddle in front of the big Sony, and Walt broke out early, much like a wide receiver. He carried a piece of paper to the telephone in the lobby.
Approximately midway through the third quarter it was becoming clear that my popularity was on the slide. Most of the bar's customers had financial attachments to 49er success and they began to talk about me rather than to me. The three guys who had bet on Dallas loved every hair on my head. Can I buy you a drink? asked one of the soon-to-be wealthy.
I'll have a Diet Coke, thanks.
How much did you bet on the Niners? You look depressed. I didn't bet, I answered.
His swallow must have hit the wrong pipe because he doubled over, shuddered and slammed a bar napkin over his nose and mouth. Two or three gasps later he surfaced with tearful eyes and a huge grin. Hey Walt, your buddy, the Au Sable tout, didn't bet! Har, Har, Har.
At this precise moment the Cowboys scored again. There was a giddy roar from the stereo speakers and a baleful, withering stare from the table of 49er faithfuls. I picked up my drink and moved a safe distance down the bar to stand by a window overlooking the steaming swimming pool. A quiet voice behind me matter of factly stated, I hate the Cowboys.
I turned and sighed agreement.
The voice belonged to an attractive, well dressed woman in (guessing) her early forties. My own strong feelings for Dallas had peaked many years ago with Drew Pearson's miraculous, last second catch against the Vikings in the play-offs.
My name is Casie. I live in Houston, that's my reason. What's yours?
She offered a hand and I took it. I'm Bob. I hate pro football in general.
Throughout the second half the youthful Dallas Cowboys continued their rampage. Casie told me that she was an attorney on a ski vacation that ended tomorrow, and I told Casie that I was on a trout fishing vacation of indeterminate length. She looked at the drifting snow by the steaming pool, at the lights of Pay Day, the night run of Park City, and patted my hand knowingly. My ex-husband had me read Trout Bum, you're one of them, aren't you? Would you like a drink? She continued the reassuring pats on my hand.
I asked the glaring bartender for a Diet Coke and made a longwinded explanation to Casie's raised eyebrow and her I thought trout fishermen drank more amber fluids. I told her that I had pretty much single-handedly given scotch whiskey a bad name in Minnesota, had quit drinking by popular demand (besides, the Saturday morning radio apologies to the Minneapolis metropolitan area were expensive), and had moved back (home) to Michigan to complete a book and fly fish for trout.
Casie told me she thought I was colorful for a Wolverine and I was about to tell her how much I was enjoying her company when Walt tapped me on the shoulder. Time to go, he announced curtly. We have to get unpacked and tucked in. You have to go to work first thing in the morning.
Casie handed me her card. Well, too bad. Sweet dreams. I sighed. Have a nice flight home. She winked goodbye. Following Walt down the stairs and into the frozen night the capriciousness of fate tumbled my soul; Troy Aikman was going to the Super Bowl, and I was being sent to bed.
During the course of week one I learned a great deal about the sophisticated inner machinery of the restaurant business. I learned how to wipe down counters and serving areas, how to fold napkins and to bus tables. I learned that the politically correct term for food servers is waitron and that the cooks and the waitrons live in an uneasy truce with the line serving as the demilitarized zone. I was informed that Park City is the resting and breeding ground of the European Bipedal Germ Carrier and that a flu shot was necessary. I learned that the customer is not always right.
Walt introduced me to his associate Rick, and to the cooks, but let me fend for myself with the waitrons. He gave me a combination to the safe, the computer access codes and the check book with a simple directive, Find out if we have any money. I called Flaming Gorge twice and was told that the fishing was slow. I tied four dozen flies, learned the names of the Utah Jazz players and caught a bad cold.
The second week started with a major blizzard that forced Walt's son Bob and friend Derrick to abort their research trip to the Green. After digging out the drift boat and reorganizing equipment to make room for life vests and oars (the essential gear included a generator, a small color TV, a VCR and a supply of fly fishing videos) they had set out for Dutch John with the intention of camping near the river at Dripping Springs. Then snow slammed the door at Evanston, Wyoming. I-80 was closed to eastbound traffic. We're in a motel. We'll come back in the morning, was the conclusion of Bob's fishing report.
Walt introduced me to a friend who was outbound to Costa Rica with a new tarpon rod and matching Abel reel. I met two vacationers wearing Detroit Red Wings caps who told me that steelhead were taking small stonefly nymphs in the lower Au Sable and that streamers were producing in the Holy Water. I learned how to update the liquor and wine inventory and how to operate the computerized point-of-sale thing. I tied three dozen nymphs and two dozen midges. I discovered that Stockton and Malone had been prematurely canonized by a guy named Hot Rod and that the Jazz coach hated to call time-outs. Dallas took no prisoners in the Super Bowl.
The Sundance Film Festival opened week three with an invasion of movie people from New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Toronto and elsewhere. Some were tanned, most were pale. A few were nasty and abusive, but most were friendly and pretty decent. Nearly all of them wore black. Black hats and scarves, black jackets and sweaters, black pants and skirts and turtlenecks and black coffee. They were easy to identify, these screenwriters, directors, producers, actors and agents.
They were in stark contrast to the fluorescent garb and knee braces of the hobbling tourists and the everyday functional, cold-weather attire of the loot-toting locals.
We were too busy to go fishing despite the warmish weather and clear skies. Walt called Angler's
Inn in Salt Lake (at least he said he did) and passed on a slow fishing report. I tied some Light Spruce streamers and two dozen Stimulator dries. The Jazz went in the dumpster and some God Squad idiots went berserk in Waco, Texas.
By the fourth week I was feeling more comfortable with, more accepted by, the waitrons and cooks. Amber told me that she always wanted to be named Dale. Krispy explained the mental trauma common among home decorators. Moose, one of the cooks, explained that he had moved to Park City from Ohio, because he couldn't pee indoors. It was a problem in Columbus. I could imagine.
Presidents' Week, with its heavy tourist business, was in full bloom. No chance now to break loose for a trip to the Green, but perhaps we could steal part of a warm day and fish small nymphs on the lower Provo. Walt jockeyed assignments and cleared an afternoon.
It was 45 degrees in Park City when we left for the river; the sun was shining, and we engaged in the giddy walk of young boys going fishing. Walt allowed as how we had extended the canons of the sport rather deeply into the core of our lives, what with catch-and-release marriages, and narrow brushes with, but relatively clean get-a-ways from executive employment. We continued the happy trout babble into Heber. Fueling the Saab and staring at Mt. Timpanogos, I felt colder somehow but dismissed the notion with the knowledge that we were parked under a roof of sorts, deep in shade.
We drove on under clouding skies. Deer tracks crisscrossed the open snow pack near Deer Creek reservoir, and I noticed several bright orange dots, ice fishermen. As soon as we passed below the dam we saw the river, low and clear õ and the parked cars of comrades, demented fly-fishers. We parked in a spot along the highway very near a bend in the river that had produced well in past years and commenced the ritual -- the deep breath of mountain air and hands-on-hips-stare at the water that precedes all; double-socked feet struggle into neoprene waders; slender graphite wands removed from aluminum tubes and fitted with ridiculously priced reels; extra fleece pullover, a windbreaker, the vest, a new tippet, the fly du jour, my new polarized Orvis bifocal sunglasses -- ? Wait a minute, where are my sunglasses? I remember them on the roof of the Saab at the gas station; I do not remember retrieving them or putting them back on. Walt comforts me with a badly scratched backup pair from the bowels of his kit bag. It is very cold, and we both put on gloves, new neoprene for Walt, old fingerless wool for me.
On the stream side of the highway guard rail the snow was crotch-deep and layered by a thin, brittle crust. Two anglers were at work at the edge of a promising riffle about seventy yards downstream. One bombed the pool with the slow sluice cast necessary to deliver a heavily-weighted nymph and Utah strike indicator (medium-sized bobber) safely past his skull, while the other flapped arms against chest and danced a careful jig on the bank.
Upstream, near the bend pool that has produced so well, another angler crossed the guard rail and tobogganed down the slope like a giant penguin. His feet hit the water rather neatly, and he fussed with his fly boxes while waiting for his entry waves to subside. He had practiced this move more than once.
You go ahead, I'll watch, was Walt's rather dry pronouncement. It's too damned cold to fish.
I picked out what I thought was a safe route to slide, raised my rod, yelled Geronimo! and bounced into the river. I made two casts before the rod guides froze solid and the small nymph buried itself into the back of my wool glove.
Had enough? Walt asked.
Back in Park City the evening news centered on the terrorist bombing of the World Trade Tower, and the weathercast detailed the surprisingly bitter cold in the Provo Canyon. Someone in Heber was the proud owner of an expensive new pair of sunglasses.
I was made Chief Assistant Bartender during week five. Restaurant and saloon owners are convinced that all bartenders steal, but since I no longer drank, these owners rationalized that the enterprise would be marginally ahead with this particular personnel shift. After memorizing Utah's detailed, somewhat convoluted regulations affecting the sale of liquor, beer and wine by the glass, I began dispensing warmth and cheer on Park City's historic Main Street.
The waitrons were horrified to learn that I was a nondrinker. An opened beer that was returned because of a misorder was placed in the refrigerator rather than being left on the line to soothe the savage thirsts of the staff. Someone else will order a Wasatch Stout real soon and this won't go to waste, I'd smile and say to the cold stares. My popularity plummeted. Only Rocky, the head chef and fellow Michigander, continued to acknowledge my Au Sable and Manistee drivel.
Week six delivered the promised rise in temperatures and bright blue, cloudless skies with mild southerly breezes. The ice was melting on Walt's driveway and I happily chopped water channels to speed the process. I was ecstatic. Phone calls to Flaming Gorge assured fine weather and active, feeding trout; Walt promised we would leave on Sunday and fish all day Monday, maybe Tuesday as well. By midweek the ski season was winding down.
Business slowed noticeably in the restaurant, and I had more time to chop ice and tie flies.
We had just finished eating, and I was clearing the table while Walt loaded the dishwasher. I was thinking that bussing tables gets in your blood. . . when the phone rang. It's Carol. She wants to talk to you Robert. Walt handed me the phone.
Your lab is a slut. She lays on her back and wiggles and tortures Jocko. If he comes too close she bites him! You have to come home on Tuesday. Bill and I are going to the Virgin River on Wednesday and you need to be here to take care of the dogs. Hi Carol. I'm fine. How are you? and then I added, sure I can be home on Tuesday. Where is the Virgin River? I've never heard of it.
She brought me back to reality with It's not a river with trout in it, its a casino in Mesquite, Nevada.
We talked for a few more minutes and I promised to call to confirm a timely arrival. My nephew Rob would pick me up at Detroit Metro and we would rescue the dogs and drive hard for my river.
The reservations, both with the airline and Flaming Gorge Lodge, were shortly confirmed. I would have only one day to fish the Green.
The favored route from Park City to Flaming Gorge is along I-80 past Evanston, Wyoming to Fort Bridger and then south and east again through Mountain View, Lonetree, Burnt Fork, McKinnon and Manilla. Old Jim's trading post still stands, restored as a national historic site, at Fort Bridger. Between Bridger and Mountain View the landscape is other-worldly. Large, greenish rock mounds lie in undulating confusion as though mighty waves of thick and grainy porridge had frozen solid in mid-course. The small creeks that cut narrow channels through the flats lie grim and stagnant in shallow pools among these desolate mounds. They promise no cooling succor. At the edges of the small pools and at the bends in the small streams, the mud is olive-brown and flaked with white and green crystals. There are no animal tracks.
Further on, Manilla lies at the southwestern edge of Flaming Gorge and serves as gateway to one of the most scenic drives in North America; the raw canyon walls and shattered, redbone buttresses do indeed flame at sunrise and sunset. But our vistas will be quite different this day. It is near dark when we turn right in Manilla and follow the sign directing us up and up to Dutch John and the Green River. The old white van hums along nicely, not at all bothered with the slight pull of the sleek, little driftboat.
Our radio had been fading in and out for some time, but we had heard, somewhere around Evanston, that this date, March 7, 1993 would put the earth and moon in very close proximity and correspondingly, tonight's full moon would be the largest any of us would ever witness. We cleared a slight rise, crossed a relatively flat stretch, took a modest right curve and there it was. The biggest, brightest old moon imaginable hung above the ragged cliffs and peaks and washed them and us in a luminous, milky veil. I'll bet the werewolves will be doing the Tango tonight. Yeah, Walt answered as we closed in on the lodge, and the rest of California too.
I slept fitfully and vaguely remember a dream in which Bill had a bad asthma attack in a casino where Carol was playing black-jack. They debated the choice of spending their last $15 on an inhaler or playing three more hands. Thankfully, before a decision was reached, I awakened to the sound of the shower in our room combined with the happy, scurrying clatter of the next door anglers loading gear into their guide's truck. I peeked out the window and grinned the grin of a lottery winner. The sky was clear, the breeze seemed very light, there was only one other fishing rig in the parking lot. It looked warm.
At the lodge store, we bought full styros and a large thermos of coffee and tried to affect the nonchalant, lying swagger of worldly anglers who really don't care if they are first on the water. Walt purchased a leader and some fresh tippet and I casually toyed with the contents of the On Sale bin, forceps, and nippers, and the like. Walt paid for the room, started for the door and then went back to the counter and bought a bag of cookies, some buffalo jerky and an ice cream bar. Breakfast. Lets go get 'em.
The A float on the upper Green is a seven-mile stretch from near the base of the dam to the popular boat ramp-parking lot-picnic area at Little Hole. The launch pad at the head of this float is reached by crossing the roadway on the top of the dam's concrete and steel buttress, taking an almost immediate right turn on the east side and switchbacking downhill roughly 300 feet to the river. The narrow road is paved now, and even sports a staging and parking area so that anglers can rig their rods and boats and generally make ready. Thusly, their boat can be quickly launched and the truck and trailer hustled back up the hill to make room for the next outfit. This is logical cooperation and it works.
Dams are controversial, and in rough correlation to their electrical output. They generate a lot of dark talk in board rooms, saloons and fly shops. This one is no exception. Hoodlum biology is a pricey and speculative venture and when applied to hydraulic gradients and aquatic life, it inflames anglers, ranchers, farmers, kayakers, city planners and the pool slob in Phoenix who just wants to flush his toilet and water the lawn. In Michigan, water is not scarce. The entire state is a swamp with a few selected high ridges surrounded by thousands and thousands of lakes and laced with creeks, brooks, streams and mighty rivers. All of this is bordered by the largest lakes in the world and blanketed for much of the year with very damp cloud cover. Water is definitely not in short supply, but trout and mayflies and crayfish are precious and Detroit needs electricity. The passions are the same. The paid-for biologist prepares charts and graphs supporting data that proves there will be no impact on darters and creek chubs, on stoneflies and scuds so, flush away and Hell yes, son, put that big ol' neon sign right up there next to the pool and the water slide.
Walt backed the trailer down the concrete apron, and we eased our emerald, shining beauty into the slick, clear water. I moved the boat slightly downstream to a secure skid on the gravel. There was one other boat being readied just upstream and a cheery, well-tanned man in a U.S. Army Retired cap waved a greeting. I smiled and returned the salute and then turned to stare at the river and its seeping walls and then tried to look through it to the bottom to locate an ethereal shimmer, a ghostly aquatic wraith, a trout.
George was my new pal's name and we swapped some favorite fly patterns over small talk. I handed him a June Wiggler, a rubber- legged version of a Michigan steelhead pattern and he proudly put a scary, rubbery thing in my hand. I call it the Chernobyl Ant, he explained. It was very big, made of foam with long black legs and a patch of glowing, orange near the head. I agreed that it was well named and he said that it is best fished as an attractor with a tiny midge trailing behind on a very fine tippet. The fish come up for a close look at the mutant, notice the smaller, less spooky fly and take it. It works. I'll try it, I promised just as Walt clambered down that last of the trail from the parking area. Lock and load, amigo. Mother is calling, was his pronouncement.
Walt always likes to row the first shift and this day he will hear no protest from me. I shove us off and crab over the side of the bow. He pulls twice on both oars and once more on the right and turns the little boat perfectly so that we slide into the main current. Sweet Pluperfect Jesus, what a day! Get to work with that graphite stick, Walt orders and I oblige.
Large cutthroats have already homed in on the choice spawning gravel on the A section and their redds are evident. Clean white gravel patches, some as large as a small room, host the determined trout and the water is so clear their crimson slashes are visible.
I tie on a tandem rig with a Prince nymph as the point fly and a Micro-Egg pattern as a dropper. My first overpowered cast lands too far beyond the fish, but I let it drift anyway and it hangs on the bottom, where it stays. I sit down to reload. There is a soft pull on the right oar and we slither neatly left to pass a mid-flow boulder. Walt is singing . . . Don Quixote, the Lord of LaMancha. . . .
The next mile or so is filled with a hundred purposeful casts and one handsome male rainbow that inhaled my tiny Pheasant Tail and tore up the patch before being released. There is the swish of fly line in the air, the wooooooooo of a soft upstream breeze, the soothing pulse of the river and the slurring whistle of wings when a tribe of Barrows Goldeneyes spooked downstream and banked hard left, then left again the pass directly overhead. The canyon walls seem to strain under the growing strength of the sun. Sprays of snowmelt race down the jagged face and loose small rocks that roll and richochet, grab air, and land in the river.
The Wild Dame is stirring, I say to myself but aloud, we are her first witness this fine clear March 8th, the day of the Werewolf Moon. We are the first to ride her water. . . If you're not going to fish, then row! grumped Walt. I'll fish! He pulled us up on a gravel bar near mile marker two and was stalking upstream before I finished the thought. I wondered if a mountain lion would like Walt, that is, take more than one bite.
To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, this is my quest. . . wafts through the riffle's gabble and I look upstream to see Walt's ginger two-step on the slippery, moss covered rocks, a wildly bending rod, and a moment later, a silver bullet, a two-liter magnum of a rainbow, cartwheeling in the sunlight. He is removing the Prince as I arrive, camera in hand. No photographs, no autographs, please. His lordship needs to rest. Walt replaces his forceps and reaches to touch the fish, but it turns and shoots into the deep pool.
We each make a few more casts then amble back to the boat to heat soup and divvy sandwiches and apples. After a short doze, we sit on the rocks and watch a magpie on the far bank pick at the remains of some large critter, Probably a mule deer, I offer.
Yeah, beaned by a rock, he answers and stands to stretch and fiddle with his gear.
It is time to change drivers. The sun is warm now and I remove my bandana and windbreaker before settling on the seat and taking the oars. Walt pushes off from shore and I pull into the flow.
He makes a few casts to the east bank and drifts his Wooly Bugger in the seam of a heavy riffle as we enter one of the lakes on the Green. These long, slow, and very deep pools are safe harbor to the river's largest fish. They can be seen cruising at varying depths, sipping midges on the surface, taking emerging nymphs a few inches below, or worrying some doomed crustacean from the rocks in ten feet of water. Mostly they cruise and torment. Rainbows, cutts and browns glide, inspect, and turn and inspect, and glide. Walt is not particularly fond of fishing these lakes, greatly preferring the faster water in the steeper gradients. Bonging a size-4 Wooly Bugger near a two-foot-long brown in clear, placid water does not result in many hookups. I push us through and wonder if a bead-eye dragon fly nymph fished deep and slow would fool these fish. Probably. Maybe.
Loose cloud streamers slip by, pushed by mighty rivers of air through the narrow window of high blue that is tightly framed by canyon walls. Spring seeps and melting ice leave dark, wet trails on the face of the schistose clay and granite. We round a bend and spook a yearling mule deer. It runs, or hops, stiff-legged for a short way, then, as if remembering something, stops short and looks over a shoulder as we pass. The water, the air, is so clear it almost hurts. Maybe we have become so accustomed to haze and smog dulled vistas that we are on the verge of being unable to tolerate crisply defined beauty without some measure of pain.
Walt reminds me that we are coming up to a nifty little rapids that requires at least some of my attention. From the upstream angle, a first impression is that a left bank approach will produce a smoother ride. Closer inspection, or damp experience, tells you that the only way through is from the tight, right corner. We line up on the chute and fly through the bounce and chop for thirty yards. Now it is time to strain and pull very hard on the oars to force the boat away from the suck of the large guardian rock. If this is done correctly your craft will slip past the dangerous boulder and eddy into a mild side current that holds some very nice browns and cutts.
I brace and take the first power stroke on the oars when my feet slip on the ice that still clings to the bottom of the boat. I am half on my back, legs in the air, oars useless. We are being drawn straight into vital jeopardy.
Break's over, Walt yells clutching his life vest, back to work! Somehow I right myself, dig deeply, pop five miles of blood vessels and miss smashing our Kelley green beauty by at least three inches.
Nice job, is the dry commentation. He returns to the percussion bombing with his weighted Wooly Bugger.
We take a few more fish, not many, and leave a wild assortment of flies on the bottom rocks. We talk about steelhead, sons and daughters, Au Sable hatches, about a Montana trip in September, and the new cabin-sized boulder in the river -- the one that tore up the wall and left a wide scar. We talk about women, and I think I'd like to bite a waitron or two. We plan a Blazing Waders (our very loosely organized fishing club) conclave and tell some jokes; I like the one about the bear ordering a beer in a bar in Boise.
Too soon, we enter the long, smooth glide above Little Hole. The shuttle service has delivered the white van which is clearly visible in the parking lot. Walt is oarman now and I make a salutory last cast to the slick behind a rock. Scud attack! There is no take and I reel in. The trip is ended.
I hold the boat while Walt claims the van and backs down the ramp. We stow gear, secure tie straps, and watch the river. The Green dances her sensual, slattern dance and I think how cold rivers and wind, shining mountains and dark swamps serve as a fulcrum for my teetering life. I harbor this thought for a moment, let it go and turn to Walt. He is slipping his rod into a cloth sack. The sun drops to the edge of the wall in the direction of Brown's Park, the air softens and this small piece of earth seems to glow. RWOL
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