This is a short story I wrote quite a few years ago. If draws freely from personal experience, the cabin once belonged to my Grandfather and the fishing is faithfully described from trips to the Wind River in Washington. The rest is fiction, of course.
Hope you like it.....
Bob waited at the train
station, the old battered Dodge pickup truck’s windows were down and Bob’s booted
feet hung out the passenger window. The feet
disappeared into the cab and Bob waved when he saw Ben appear in the depot
doorway.
“You still driving this old thing?” Ben
complained as he eyed the truck up and down. It’s paint, once dark blue, had
faded into a dusty blue-gray. Scabs of rust flaked along the running board and
around the wheel wells.
“Don’t let looks
fool you,” Bob claimed, “this old truck could make her way through anything
short of a very deep lake.”
“It looks to me
like she’s already proven that,” Ben laughed.
Pointing at a large dent in the bumper, he added, “What twisted your
front bumper, you hit a drunk or something?
And what’s all this junk doing back here?” The pickup’s bed was littered with spare
engine parts and tools. Ben added his bag to the collection and hopped into the
cab.
“I hit a deer last
month. I came around Chapman’s Curve one
night and a big buck just stood in the middle of the road, staring at me. I couldn’t stop, and had no way to miss
him. All I saw was brown fur and hooves
going over the roof. He landed in the
bed back there. Lucky I didn’t end up in
the ditch.”
Looking at the
litter in the bed, Ben teased, “He’s not still back there, is he? It’s hard to tell with all that junk piled
up.”
“Naw, I just
lowered the tailgate and slid him into a ditch.
And that stuff you call ‘junk’ is needed in case we break down. This truck ain’t getting any younger, and
spares are hard to come by. I’ve
collected enough parts to fix almost anything that can go wrong. And if you have any ideas where I can get a
new truck for free, you just let me know.”
Eying the size of Ben’s suitcase, he added, “That’s a lot of luggage
for a fishing weekend, cuz.”
“I’ve got business in Portland, and it gave me
the chance to swing by here and spend a few days with you before I get into
it,” Ben replied.
“All you need
where we’re going is a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. That, and a couple cans of beans will set you
up for the whole summer.”
The cousins spent
the drive to the cabin catching up on family events. Ben drank in the forest greenery that flashed
by his open window. He’d been coming up
here every summer that he could remember, until college and work interfered
with his annual visit. Too many years
had passed since he’d been here last, and he was surprised by how much he had
missed it.
Finally, the
forest leaves parted to reveal the cabin.
Ben saw that few improvements had been made over the years. The cabin
was situated in the center of an overgrown grassy clearing. Green painted split logs ran horizontally
over a rough wood frame to form the outside walls gave it a rustic look, but it
was sturdy enough. Grey asphalt shingles
capped the roof, and three wooden steps led up to a porch where a rusty screen
hung in a vain attempt to keep out the mosquitoes. Inside the front door, a rough kitchen table
and four chairs served as the eating and sitting area, while a cast iron wood
burning stove provided heat and a cooking surface. A sink with a hand operated water pump
completed the kitchen furnishings. Two
small bedrooms were each equipped with a pair of hand built bunk beds. Old green wool blankets hung in the doorway
to provide a modicum of privacy. Toilet
facilities, such as they were, were located out back, forty or more paces from
the cabin.
Bob fired up the
stove and before long the aroma of beef sizzling in bacon fat filled the
cabin. A quick stew was assembled in the
cast iron frying pan and the cousins ate their fill.
“Say, this isn’t
what’s left of that deer you hit, is it?” Ben asked as he forked the last bite
of stew into his mouth.
Stretching back in
the kitchen chair, Bob replied, “Naw, you can’t eat a deer that’s been hit like
that, everyone knows that. Their insides get all split open and it spoils the
meat.”
“That’s why I
asked,” Ben teased.
“Then you should’ve
asked before you started eating, not after.”
Ben tried to
settle in to sleep, but found the deep quiet of their remote location too great
a contrast from the raucous noises of his city apartment. Eventually, he tuned into the chirping of the
crickets and the murmur of the river that ran a couple of hundred yards
away. He finally fell into a deep sleep
where he dreamed of large fish sitting at a long mahogany table while they
talked over sales strategies.
He awoke at dawn
to the cackle of starlings that nested beneath the eaves. He staggered sleepily to the kitchen and
splashed water from the pump onto his face.
The ice cold water cleared the sleep from his head and invigorated him
far better than the coffee Bob had brewed in a dented enameled pot.
“These better be
starling eggs,” he commented to Bob.
“Those damn birds woke me up before it was even light out. I want revenge.”
“Naw, they’re
plain old chicken eggs.” Bob heaped
fried ham and potatoes on their plates, and the cousins washed down the country
breakfast with scalding hot coffee.
Fortified by the food, they were ready for the day.
The old truck
lurched into gear, and they were on their way to the landing where Bob kept an
old rowboat chained to a tree. An early
morning fog curled in the meadows that flanked the sandy track that served as a
road. A small herd of deer raised their
heads from their grazing at the edge of the meadow to watch unafraid as the
truck bounced down the rutted path.
Daisies and buttercups filled every sunlit space with their blossoms.
The sun was rising
as they loaded the boat, and its warmth was welcome in the morning chill. As Ben pushed off, Bob lowered the outboard
motor and yanked on the starter rope.
The old Evinrude was well maintained, and coughed into life on the
second pull. Bob expertly guided the
boat into the current and pointed the nose upstream. The water ran clean and clear, and its swift
flow provided little hindrance as they motored their way upstream. As Bob piloted, Ben started rigging the
fishing gear.
At the end of each
line, Ben attached a swivel with two eyes.
To one eye, he tied a strong six foot leader already rigged with two
small hooks. To the other eye, he tied a
four foot weaker line rigged with a heavy weight. The weight would drop to the bottom and allow
the current to draw the bait out and away from the boat, and the length of the
leader would keep the bait suspended above the streambed. If the weight got caught on the bottom, it
would easily break the weaker line and allow the baited hook to drift free.
As the boat
puttered upstream, Ben rigged four rods.
They could only fish one rod each, but it was always better to have a
ready spare in case one got fouled on the bottom. This would invariably happen at the time the
fish were “on the bite”, so the spare was essential. Duties completed, Ben had time to admire the
view. Bob had brought the boat into a
large pool, where a steep cliff formed a western wall. This wall would shade the deep waters from
the heat of the afternoon sun. “Prime spot,” Ben thought to himself but
Bob kept them going upstream.
At the pool’s
head, the river tumbled over a rocky shelf, forming a miniature waterfall. The current was split in two by a large rock
in the center of the shelf. A great
volume of water streamed down the twin cascades, and the fast flow ensured any
salmon migrating up the river would stop to rest in the pool’s calm waters
before tackling the rapids. From the
head of the pool, the main channel crossed at a diagonal from the eastern shore
to the western bank, which ran sharply down to the water’s edge. The western shore was guarded by a steep
granite cliff, nearly a hundred feet tall.
Its flanks were thickly clad in cedar and fir trees, which scented the
cool morning air. The eastern shore was
flat and was scarcely higher than river level; its floor was cobbled with
stones washed by the river into the plain and ground smooth as they tumbled into
place. Centuries of spring floods kept
any large trees from growing there, but wildflowers and small alders grew in
abundance, along with scrub willow and poplar.
Scottish broom bloomed with fierce yellow flowers, and purple iris drew
the attention of butterflies. Huge
dragonflies hovered in the morning sun, darting here and there in search of
invisible prey.
Ben sighed
contentedly and absorbed the amazing scenery.
He’d spent too much time in cities and offices, and hadn’t realized how
much he missed the outdoors until this very moment. The trip was therapy for his soul; any fish
caught would be a bonus.
Bob maneuvered the
boat to the very head of the channel.
Further upstream they couldn’t go, for the cascade and the steep rock
shelf guarded against any further incursion into the wildness beyond. Bob dropped anchor and let out enough line to
keep them in place near the head of the channel. A battered plastic bleach bottle served to keep
the anchor line afloat. While the boat’s
nose pointed upstream, the stern gently swayed back and forth in the swift
clear current. Bob secured the anchor
line to a cleat at the boats’ bow. Once
he was certain the line would hold, Bob stopped the motor and tipped the
propeller up. “We’ll fish here awhile,”
he quietly announced.
Ben opened the
insulated box where the bait was kept.
Sand shrimp or fresh salmon roe make the best salmon bait, and Bob had
brought shrimp this trip. If they caught
a hen they would have roe to try later.
Bob and Ben each selected a shrimp and threaded the carapace through the
top hook. A segment of the tail went
through the second hook. Once in the
water, this would present the shrimp head up, much like it would look
naturally. “Never mind that shrimp don’t live in fresh water,” Ben
thought. Salmon were accustomed to
growing fat on shrimp, and seeing one here in the river would trigger a
reaction conditioned by three or four years of making their living in the open
sea.
Bob anointed the
shrimp with the foulest smelling concoction Ben had ever encountered. “Stop complaining,” Bob growled, “This stuff
is irresistible to fish.” The lines were
tossed a few yards downstream, and slack was given to let the weight drop to
the bottom. Bob had chosen the right
side, which was nearest the thickly wooded western shore. Ben was off the left. The rods were placed in the oarlocks, and the
slack was retrieved. “The rest is up to
the fish,” Bob said.
Ben leaned back,
stretched out his legs, and contemplated the cloudless sky until the corner of
his eye caught a small movement. A mink
noiselessly made his way down the western bank, darting among the gray granite
boulders and along the trunk of a downed cedar, searching for a small fish to
serve as his breakfast. A few yards
downstream, an osprey perched in the topmost branch of a tall fir. A blue heron flew lazily upstream, and
thought the shallows along the eastern shore would be a perfect place to hunt
for minnows. As he landed, the osprey
swooped down from the fir and brushed past the heron, who quickly decided there
probably were better fishing grounds elsewhere.
The heron took to the air and continued on upstream. Satisfied the interloper would not return,
the osprey regained his throne in the top of the fir.
Just then Ben’s
rod bent double as a salmon decided to snack on the shrimp. He waited a few seconds to make sure the fish
had taken the bait, then picked up the rod and gave a strong pull to set the
hook. The salmon responded with an even stronger
pull, and headed back down river. “Fish
on!” Ben yelled, and Bob scrambled to the bow and loosed the anchor line from
the cleat, and allowed the boat to drift free.
Ben reeled against
the pull of the fish, and at first made no progress. The drag screamed and line continued to run
off the spool. But the boat was now
floating downriver along with the fish, and Ben was able to retrieve some
line. The salmon was fresh come from the
sea, and used his strength in a desperate pull to break free. For five minutes they battled, and the water’s
flow along with the pull of the fish had carried the boat into the large pool
where the current settled down. Ben
continued to pump the rod and retrieve what line he could, until the fish
finally tired. As the salmon drew near
the boat, they could see his silver sides flashing in the clear water. Ben brought the fish alongside the boat, and
Bob positioned the net. The fish caught
sight of the net and startled, and swam off for another run. Once more the drag screamed in protest, but
Ben was slowly able to bring him back alongside the boat. The fish was too tired for a third run, and
Bob deftly netted the first catch of the day and brought a beautiful chrome
bright twenty-five pound king salmon on board.
“That’s a keeper,”
Bob proclaimed as he lowered the salmon into the fish box. He pulled the motor’s starter rope and the
engine roared as Bob piloted them back upstream. Ben renewed his line with fresh leader and
hooks along the way, then went up to the bow.
As Bob brought them to where the bleach bottle floated, Ben retrieved
the anchor line and secured it to its cleat.
It was as perfect
as any day could ever be. The cousins
talked about life, liberty, and the pursuit of women along with anything else
that came to mind.
As evening fell,
they made their way back to the boat landing with four fish in the box. Ben had caught three, and knew that Bob had
given him the preferred location. As
they hauled the boat out of the water, Ben looked up at the deepening sky and
breathed a prayer of thanks to God in His heaven for allowing such places as
this to still exist upon the earth.
