catch and release

Adam took Jake and I fishing.

(Jake cooks. I just started calling him Chefferson Davis.)

The river cleared up and dropped along the banks.

I only had one salmon to bring home.

There are so many things to do.

But a guide gave me one, and another gave me two.

So we fished for rainbow trout.

“Grab a 6-weight, or 7,” Adam told me, because I’m still new to flyfishing.

I grabbed a salmon fly rod by mistake.

(But maybe just in case.)

But. Like I said.

The sun lit up the water, and pink salmon hovered in front of my feet.

(They don’t look so good right now.)

I hooked a rainbow after some time.

The guides always talk about trout fishing.

I don’t know why.

But this fish!

I thought it was a silver salmon, angry and strong.

Then it catapulted above the water, and glittered in the sun.

(And I still thought it was a silver salmon.)

I couldn’t believe it.

Except I saw the bright red stripe running along its side.

You have to understand.

(Even though I don’t understand.)

I kept tension on the line, but not so much that the fish might pop off the hook.

I guided the trout toward the shore.

Adam grabbed the net.

“That’s the biggest rainbow I’ve ever seen!” he yelled.

(I saw one like it on a wall in the lodge.)

I grabbed the green line with my left hand.

(I know you’re supposed to reel.)

But that fish.

And that hook.

That little hook.

“Oh no!” Adam said, as the line lightened in my hands.

I covered my face.

“You all right?” he asked.

But I wasn’t.

And I said so.

gifts

“What was your name again,” I asked.

He told me.

“I’ve been here a couple of days,” he said kindly.

“Jeez, how much have you had to drink,” another client joked.

I blushed.

“I know you’ve been here,” I insisted.

(He was tough to miss.)

I just never got his name. And he never got mine.

It bothers me.

(Though I’m sure he figured it out.)

I’m around.

He turned to his in-laws at bar, and used the word “teach.”

I asked him what.

“Art,” he said, and shyly smiled.

He never studied it in school. But he studied with a painter for three years.

He’s 40-something, but his parents still aren’t sure about him.

Can you imagine?

“My mom thinks she knows me more than I know myself,” he said.

(But his wife understands.)

And his dad is an engineer.

So we sat by the fire, and after we ran out of bear stories, I asked about art.

Philosophy and bravery and light.

It was good for me to meet someone with courage.

(Even though people say the same thing about me.)

When I quit writing, someone always shows up.

(And that’s what he suggests.)

the French chef

I saw a stranger, and the dog barked.

“Is it okay if I use the internet,” he asked me in June.

(Of course it was.)

He stops by every 10 days or so.

I offer him coffee but he never accepts.

He cooks at the Swiss lodge down the river. But he’s from France.

He used to live in Detroit, but his business fell apart and his home was foreclosed.

He cooks in Alaska during the summers.

(I think he will be okay.)

I told him that I spent a summer working in a French monastery.

So he loaned me a book about 3,000 years of Christianity.

The book was accessible.

We both wonder about women.

After a week or so I set the book on my little shelf.

He invited me to the Swiss independence party.

Our boss wouldn’t let us go.

(But two older staffers did.)

Rank has its privileges, my mom used to say.

But still.

I heard the fireworks, though, and walked down to the boats to see.

Then I drank to celebrate.

(Swiss Miss.)

the bankers

He walked up to me.

“I wanted to ask you –  do you have to stay here,” he said.

I smiled.

“I’m feeling bad for you,” he told me.

“I’m feeling bad for me, too,” I said, and smiled so he’d think I was joking.

“It’s fine,” I told him.

(And that was true, too.)

Ten bankers and businessmen work together and go fishing each year.

They brought their own wine.

But I turned toward them.

“Does anyone need anything?” I asked.

(A banker repeated the question.)

More ambers and pale ales.

I said something about the Cubs.

(But there’s nothing about the Cubs.)

They played Liar’s Dice.

(I wanted to join.)

Instead I sat on my barstool and skimmed a book.

One started imitating film characters during his turns.

Sean Connery in the Rock, and Marlon Brando’s Godfather.

And someone from Caddyshack.

(No, I haven’t seen it.)

At 2:20 they left.

Sheepish looks.

“We’re sorry, Mary!”

“No problem,” I said, and waved.

(It’s their vacation.)

A few stayed for one more glass.

They asked me for my plans, and approved.

“Things change when you get married and have kids,” one said.

And looked into the distance.

(I suppose there’s always something.)

these bears i saw while holding a camera

the other night

The rain returned one night, and my shirt stuck to my arms.

It seems darker at night now. And the fog had settled in.

I left the lodge and stood by the river.

But it was getting late.

I walked back toward Guideville. I met a couple of friends along the way.

Chris said good night.

Casey walked with me toward the boats.

I wanted to see bears.

I have never seen them in camp, and I suppose it’s for the best.

But I’ve seen them on an island across the river.

And a mother and two cubs at the neighboring lodge.

(You wouldn’t believe how fast they run.)

I only see them at night.

I feel safer during the day.

But they are here.

I’ve seen many tracks, and dusty paw prints on the outdoor food

pantry.

Then there is the matter of the hole in the trash container.

Casey and I watched the water.

I bet those bears are just waiting in the bushes, I thought to myself.

I gazed at the boats, and yawned.

Casey grabbed my arm, and pointed.

We stared at the cleaning table.

A brown bear stood on her hind legs and stared back.

Two cubs, mostly grown, stood by her.

Watching us.

We were all speechless.

“Hey, get outta here!” Casey finally yelled.

They ran into the bushes.

We left, too.

50 feet is too close.

I had trouble catching my breath.

(But a couple of mornings later I found tracks 10 feet from my door.)

concerns

“I’ve never felt nervous walking the slough trail until now,” the caretaker told me a few days ago.

 

He lives in a cabin alone all winter. He jokes with everyone, but I think he is eager for solitude.

 

He chops wood for a woman across the river, and she fills 5-gallon jugs with water for him.

 

There are others around, too.

 

No bears, of course.

 

He has many stories. Last year he mentioned a friend who was dragged out of his tent by a brown bear.

 

(He lived.)

 

So my stories are not as intense. But to me they are enough.

 

The slough trail is filled with puddles and surrounded by sweeping green ferns and pink fireweed.

 

But it’s the tracks that bother him, he says, and the side paths trampled by paws.

 

I used to sit where the trail meets the water, and read when the sun came out.

 

Not now, of course.

late last night while you were asleep

The other night the rain stopped, and I slid my window open.

 

The light never bothers me.

 

Someone turned off the generator, and silence filled my ears.

 

So I began to listen.

 

Water washed past trees and half-drowned ferns, pouring around bends.

 

And a few birds began to sing.

 

Usually sea gulls screech, or eagles scream, but this was something I couldn’t identify.

  

And then a bear popped her jaws, as if another bear had tried to snatch her cubs under the falling light.

 

(It’s like a muffled clap. But much louder.)

 

 

Just then a thud, and a snap, like an animal knocking over a tiny tree and clumsily trampling on it.

 

I could hear others wading in the water.

 

They fight over fish parts – skeletons and heads – leftovers tossed into the water by guides after filleting salmon at the cleaning table.

 

(40 yards from my cabin.)

 

I heard them snarling, hissing and growling at each other, as if right behind my cabin.

 

There are so many bears.

 

And I felt a sharp pain in my heart.

the new yorker

Fridays I don’t have to stay in the lodge, but sometimes I do.

There are not many places to hang out.

The bears have taken over my slough trail, of course.

It’s fairly obvious.

Still, it’s nice to rest on Fridays.

No chasing pink feathers with the corners of a broom, materials dropped by busy hands tying flies.

I like to admire the floor while listening to footsteps.

(A short break while someone grabs the doorframe to steady himself, and slips plastic covers over fishing boots.)

I like pouring beer and chatting with guests during the afternoon or evening.

But it’s nice to rest.

Fridays I scrape Rice Krispies from cereal bowls and shake bread crusts into the food bucket.

I’m quick with dishes, of course.

And free with time to spare.

I gathered mugs from the bar and glanced at the coffee table in the middle of the room.

Our boss receives Sports Illustrated, and carries it back from the PO box in Anchorage. But I’d read each page 2 or 3 times.

But there are other magazines.

I scanned the titles:

Salmon Trout Steelheader.

Fly Rod & Reel.

Fly Fisherman.

(My favorite is called Sports Afield, a journal of big-game hunting that recently featured an article on the “Dark Continent.”)

Something for all tastes.

Reading fishing magazines is like reading French.

But it’s getting easier.

However.

I saw The Drake, which I can understand.

And the New Yorker.

What?

Someone must’ve left it here!

I ran across the room.

The subscriber’s name had been torn off.

It must have been an angel!

I carried the magazine to my cabin, and settled in a green plastic chair on my little deck outside.

I read something about Huckabee, and Euro music.

I’m not saying it was current.

But it was enough.

(I saved the fiction for a more depressing day.)

I paid no attention to the shouts of guides chopping wood nearby.

All I needed was tea, and a blanket for my legs.

first salmon on a fly rod!

The other night the hot water disappeared after dinner, so I packed coolers while Adam burned trash.

 

Casey the guide helped us with dishes a while later.

 

A long day.

 

I sat on the couch in the lodge, tapping craters in my stainless steel water bottle.

 

(It was 9 p.m. or so.)

 

“You want to go fishing?” Casey asked.

 

(I wanted to go to bed.)

 

 “Sure,” I said, because I fish whenever I can.

 

“No waders,” he said, and I felt relieved.

 

(Usually I slip Gore Tex overalls over layers of clothes, and slide moon boots on my feet.)

 

 It’s just one of those things.

 

It rained almost every day after break, but it stopped for a little while that night.

 

Casey parked the boat near a tree that resembled an upside down rake.

 

A bald eagle watched us from above.

 

(I never tire of that.)

 

A friend soon joined him.

 

I’ve been practicing fly fishing this summer.

 

There’s a lot to remember.

 

And sometimes my mind drifts.

 

“Open your shoulder up more,” Casey said.

 

I looked up at the eagle.

 

He was unfolding his right wing.

 

We heard strange sounds.

 

 Not a good thing in the wilderness.

 

I turned around.

 

(I was standing on a boat seat.)

 

Three river otters hurried down the current as if glued together.

 

They hissed at us, and bared their little teeth.

 

A minute later, three more hissed further down the river.

 

I turned back to fishing, sort of.

 

(Smiling.)

 

Fly rods are light, so you know when a fish is on. But you can’t just

reel it in.

 

You have to let it “run.”

 

(I’ve lost a few.)

 

Most people have.

 

I cast the line into the water, and stripped the line absentmindedly. 

 

And felt a sudden tug.

 

I couldn’t tell you how I landed it, exactly.

 

(One of those things.)

 

But my first salmon on a fly rod was a pink.

 

(And I let it go.)

 

Pinks aren’t very tasty. Unless I give them away, of course.