by Vince Milam
I shifted, and the ground crunched underfoot. Icy snow, frozen pellets. Our breath showed against the blackness. Catch lived black and white, right and wrong. If Angel sat on the wrong side, Catch would have no remorse pulling the trigger. I didn’t dwell there.
“How’s Portland life?” I asked.
“Excellent. Found a fine woman.”
“Good for you. You deserve to be happy.”
“And get this. She owns a welding shop. We partner. Both the personal and business side of things.”
Catch had always been good with his hands, mechanical and electrical.
“You worry? Living there?”
“Nope. My name’s not on anything. Not on the business or cell phone or vehicle registration. I don’t exist.”
“Still.”
“Yeah, still. It’s getting old.”
He scanned three-sixty with night-vision binoculars and continued. “Been hoping the Clubhouse would sooner or later find the source. The paymaster.”
“Got another source looking. Inside the Company.”
He lowered the binoculars, leaned close. “Let me know if your source hits pay dirt. You and me, we’ll take a trip. Finish it.”
“Done deal. You have my word. Now go hit the rack. I’ll take it till dawn.”
He handed me the binoculars but kept his grip. “Man, I wish I’d seen Bo. Before he went down.”
“I know. He missed you, too. Said so.”
“It isn’t right. The world. The world without him,” Catch said.
“I feel it, too. Off-kilter.”
He tugged the binoculars, drew me nose-to-nose. “If they do come, with or without Angel, no mercy. None.”
I returned a grim nod, bumped foreheads. He buttressed my moral waffling about Angel. No remorse, no hesitation, squeeze the trigger. Behind us another pack of coyotes yipped, moaned, and howled into the night. The night breeze emphasized winter on the horizon, biting, cold.
We stood together two hundred meters from the ranch house, inside a small coulee. Catch whacked my back and left to find sleep. I hunkered down and night-scoped the surrounding terrain. Every twenty minutes I’d change positions, move.
Three hours later, the first sign of daylight crept over the eastern horizon. My earbud crackled, and Marcus spoke. “Come in. Daylight.”
I found him in the kitchen, cooking. Catch snored from the great-room couch.
“I’ll accept this nighttime vigilance to a point,” he said. “Three or four more days. Damn silly going through this if no one shows up.”
“They’re showing up, Marcus.”
“Maybe.” He turned the bacon and stopped fiddling with food, pressed both hands into the countertop. “You’ve got to leave Spookville, Case. Got to. Shadowed targets shift, grand conspiracies gamed—you have to lead a different life. Settle somewhere. And that’s the end of my preaching.”
“What happened to Bo damn sure wasn’t in the shadows.”
“You’re right. All for a reward. Money. We’ll handle it, if and when the time comes.”
“They’re coming. And I’ve dragged both of you into this mess.”
“Basta. Enough.”
Furrowed brow, hard stare. Irritated.
“You’ve been hiding your Italian heritage.”
A headshake, a smile. “I mean it,” he said. “We’ll keep this going a few more days. Stand night watch. Meanwhile, we live our lives during the day.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning there’s a midge hatch on the Big Lost.”
The Big Lost Creek was isolated, seldom fished, and required access through private land. Marcus’s neighbors. The water level would be low, summer’s snowmelt having long completed its filling renewal. Perfect for dry fly-fishing.
The river’s current insect hatch—midges, a tough cold-weather bug—offered trout a fine supper. The life cycle of midge nymphs swimming for the river’s surface after time spent among the rocks and aquatic vegetation made for a steady trout diet. But the hatch, the hatch. A smorgasbord of food as nymphs collected on the surface film and hatched into a flying insect. Fat trout would sip, ingest the transformed bugs before they flew away.
“Sounds good.” It did. The Zen-like presentation of a tiny insect imitation, suspended on the film of the river’s surface. A desultory float-by to entreat a fat trout to rise from its lair and sip from the surface.
“Afterward, sharp-tails and huns.”
Sharp-tail grouse and Hungarian partridge sprinkled these rolling grasslands. Lots of walking, a good bird dog pointing coveys, and a fine, crisp fall day. It sounded better than good. The dark backdrop of a visit from professional killers hovered, but Marcus plied Montana magic. It began working.
“And to help you get your head right,” he said, pausing to lift his chin toward the sleeping Catch. “Our backs are covered.”
He had a point. Daylight removed the advantage from attackers. And wandering the hills and grasslands put us out of harm’s way while the ranch house remained a lure. Jake sat and observed our morning ministrations, begged some bacon, and settled into his ranch-dog routine.
The bushy eyebrows and chin beard wandered about, hanging with the fellows, depositing dog toys at our feet. I’d learned from past experience that Jake didn’t expect to play with the toys. They were a gift from him to a visitor. A peculiar habit, endearing.
As I called Mom and checked her situation, Jake approached Catch with a gift and nuzzled the snoring operator. Catch woke, shoved an arm under the dog, and lifted the sixty-five-pound squirming package onto his chest and belly. The dog settled, nose in Catch’s beard, and snores recommenced. Marcus hummed a tune, Mom assured me things were well, and morning adopted an element of peace. I relaxed and tried hard living the moment.
Tranquility came to a screeching halt when Marcus pulled the shotguns and game bags from a closet. Preparation for a hunt. The bird-dog DNA activated. Canine synapses thrown into overdrive. The critter flew off Catch, waking him, and for the rest of the morning never left Marcus’s side. He whined and cast dark brown eyes toward his owner, fearful of exclusion from the event. Marcus’s commands to “Hush” and “Chill, Jake,” had no effect whatsoever. Jake was a bird dog. And the boss had opened the possibility of a bird hunt. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could be finer.
Catch wandered outside, returned. “I appreciate a great outdoors piss.”
“You wouldn’t appreciate a high-velocity bullet nailing you in the process,” I said. “Great epitaph. Died with his pecker in his hand.”
“Jake isn’t the only one that needs to chill,” Marcus said, sending a look my way. “Come eat before it gets cold.”
The dog sat and stared at the countertop while we ate, focused on the two game bags set there with their residual smell of past grouse. Catch farted, and both Marcus and I waved at the table air.
“Something crawl up there and die?” Marcus asked.
“Altitude adjustment,” Catch said. “What’s this talk about fishing? And a hunt?”
“Out and about,” Marcus said. “Away from here.”
“Like it,” Catch said. “Flies to honey. The ranch house. Shoot the bastards in the back.”
“Speaking of shooting,” Marcus said.
“Got it. I’ll walk behind while you two fish. And hunt. Cover the area. And your asses.”
“And we live life,” Marcus added. “Prepared, but not huddled, waiting. That’s important.”
I cleaned dishes after breakfast while Marcus made lunch. Jake whined, and Catch checked his rifle.
“You’re a bold man,” I’d commented at the sandwich creations. Large thick cuts of liverwurst, rounds of fresh onion, and gobs of mayonnaise were plastered between two slices of Italian bread.
“Be stout of heart,” he said. “This is food fit for kings.”
“Food for passing gas.”
“A farting mule never tires,” Catch added from across the room.
Marcus tossed Jake a small
leftover piece of liverwurst. A Ziploc of Muenster cheese and three crisp apples joined the sandwiches in a small pack, along with a thermos of coffee and water bottles. A final kitchen cleanup, and we loaded serious armament into the Suburban, as well as the shotguns and game bags.
The tires sang a gravel song, the morning clear and fine, my gut less knotted. A good day, surrounded by fellow warriors. Friends. Brothers.
Chapter 31
Frost and frozen snow crunched underfoot as we donned waders. The distant twelve-thousand-foot craggy peaks stood white, bright with fresh snow. The air carried fresh, crisp. The high prairie had begun its dormancy—a dry and acrid and resigned smell. The morning came cold, but the sun offered promise and held its end of the bargain, warming the ground.
Marcus provided the necessary equipment. Fly rods, waders, wading boots. Catch added commentary to our morning endeavor.
“Just so I’m clear. You catch fish with a little bug imitation.”
“Yep,” Marcus said.
“Then toss them back in the river.”
“It’s called catch and release.”
“It’s called dumbassery. Catch a fish. Throw it back. Repeat.”
“Listen to Mr. Sierra Club,” I said. “They must love your progressive outlook in Portland.”
“I overcome their dismay with charm. And this fine beard.”
I left the vehicle several times, opened and closed ranch gates. Catch demurred involvement, explaining his backseat position best for covering our backs. Jake flung to full alert at each stop, prepared, waiting. We drove through vast swaths of private land—friends and acquaintances of Marcus—and made our way to the river.
“You talk about finding a place,” Marcus said. “A place to settle. Stop all your transient living.”
“So far, just talk. But I’m serious.”
A herd of antelope measured our pace, cruised parallel at forty miles an hour. They neither veered nor changed speed, matched our route, taking a run on a fall morning.
“Used to hunt those as a kid,” Catch said. “Tasted like sagebrush.”
“Consider this day. And ignore voices from the back seat. When we head back to the ranch, think about if it gets any better.”
My friend and former team leader had a point. And anchored an emotional component. I could live a long, long time seeing Marcus on a regular basis. He’d feel the same way. And this part of the world possessed a strong appeal. Wild, distant, isolated. One of the few places left where, away from the sparse fence lines, it took little effort imagining this land as it was before Lewis and Clark.
The vast Yellowstone Park was thirty miles south, and the protected bison there—ignoring mandated boundaries—wandered this area regularly. It wasn’t unusual to walk over a rise and view fifteen or twenty of them grazing, grunting, rolling in a well-used stretch of bare earth. Taking a dust bath. The hills we drove through were home to antelope, mule deer, coyotes, and wolves. Elk and cougar populated the vast mountain ranges around us. The Beartooths, the Absarokas, the Gallatin Range. Big, big country. And I loved it.
But I’d spent part of a winter here as well. And for a Georgia boy, it was terminal duty. Whiteouts due to wind. Ground snow lifted, swirled, sent packing miles across the vast high prairie, obliterating visibility. Cold well below zero. Bone-chilling cold. An involuntary shiver went through me.
“Winter, my friend. Tough duty for this boy.” I patted Marcus’s arm and drew Jake’s attention. He demanded a chin scratch as I had volunteered physical affection. “Love being here, with you. And Catch. That’s a given.”
“Anyone bring beer?” Catch asked. “So I can drink while you two emote.”
“Again, ignore voices from the back seat,” Marcus said.
“As for today, I’m not going to think about it. Just live it. Because you’re right. It doesn’t get any better than this.”
A burr, a tiny pang, registered. I’d sent Mom and CC into hiding. They didn’t mind a Grandma Wilson visit, but nonetheless, they were hiding. And I was preparing for a fishing expedition, relishing the opportunity. The possibility loomed of a call to give Mom the “all clear.” But it wasn’t clear, and Marcus’s disregard of impending danger struck me as too simple, too assured.
We drove over a rise, and the river displayed empty for miles. The Big Lost held pools, riffles, eddies—interspersed with logjams and flat spots. Perfect trout habitat. Waders and wading boots on, fly rod rigged, Marcus struggled putting Jake back into the Suburban. The torture chambers of Torquemada’s Spain must have echoed with the same sounds as the dog howled, moaned, groaned, begged, and whined—trapped while we walked away. Prior to departure, Catch slung his rifle across his back, binoculars around his neck.
“I’ll stay up top.”
“Sorry you can’t join us,” I said, and meant it.
“Hook a fish. Toss it back. No, thanks.” He took off with a bearlike gait and absorbed the terrain, calculated the possibilities. Marcus and I descended into the tight river valley.
We stood at the river’s edge, watched, waited. Marcus lit a cigar. A dipper, the size of a robin, worked the rounded shore rocks. The bird dove into the water, disappeared, popped up. The sunken riverbed offered protection from the wind; the lightest of breezes caused a faint ripple across still water. Then it started.
Marcus flipped his hand through the air, grasped something unseen. He opened his hand under my nose. A tiny insect, black, mosquito-like, wavered in his palm, recovered, became airborne again.
“Midge?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
A litany of aquatic insects populated these rivers. They lived, submerged, under rocks and along the bottom as a wormlike nymphs. Crawling and feeding, they provided food for trout. Survivors had a signal in their buggy little brains. A signal it was time to rise, surface. Shed the hard exoskeleton and emerge on the river’s surface as a flying insect. Then their life span consisted of three or four more days. They bred, the females dropped their eggs back into the river, and the cycle started again.
Midges, mayflies, caddis flies—the list was long, with each variety hatching for certain weeks of the year. Trout home in on the hatch du jour. This was midge season.
“Griffiths Gnat?” I asked.
“That’d be a good bet.”
The Griffith’s Gnat fly imitated a small cluster of midges collected on the water’s surface. Not a trout rib eye steak like the massive stone flies, but a tasty treat and the lone item on the seasonal menu.
A small rise, a dimple in the river’s surface, indicated a feeding trout. Then another, and another. The hatch started. With midges, it could last hours. The trout dinner bell clanged loud. Marcus and I separated and fished different stretches of water.
Marcus hooked up first, as expected. I wouldn’t have known it but for the loud splash of a fat rainbow trout. Hooked, it put on an initial aerial display, and tore the fly line downstream, leaped again. Spray and silver fish backlit by bright morning light. Marcus’s fly line suspended in the air, a connective filament to the hooked trout. A master, calm, focused, he worked the eighteen-inch rainbow toward him, his net, and release back into the river. I watched with utmost pleasure, paused my pursuit until he’d brought it to net, and unhooked it. He gently immersed the fish back in the water, held it until it recovered and swam away. From the distance, as light twinkled from the river ripples, it appeared as interactive art, the stage unmatched.
Marcus turned downstream, wondered if I’d seen the event. I held both hands, eighteen inches apart, indicated my perspective of the size. He smiled back, shook his head, and relit his cigar. Then he held his hands three feet apart. We both laughed.
It was so unlike fishing saltwater. There, the environment—estuaries, bays, sounds—remained relatively static. The quarry—saltwater fish—dynamic. They moved, hunted. Here, the opposite. The environment moved, whirled, cascaded. The fish lay at the bottom, a pocket of calm water delivered by a rock or structure, watched, waited. A nym
ph rising for transformation or hatched insects still in the water’s surface film elicited trout to leave their lair. A rise of primitive surety, deliberate and paced, engulfing food.
Several large fish fed near the opposite bank, swirls and dimples across the calm section as they rose and sipped clusters of midges from the surface film. A group of overhanging willows shaded, protected them. I moved, stalked, and ensured my wading boots didn’t scrape or drag—sending a danger signal to the trout. Fifty feet distant, I stopped and positioned for a presentation. It would require a slop cast.
The stretch of river separating us consisted of three different ribbons of running water, each moving at its own speed. Water rushed, pushed against my waders. Twenty feet away, a large boulder offered relief from the current, a downstream pocket more sedate. Then more rushing water until, at a slight bend of the river’s course, slack water, still, where the fish fed.
To fool a trout, make it believe the little cluster of feathers and thread floating by was the real deal, a dead drift made for the first critical factor. My fly had to attend the speed of the surface where they fed. These trout rose where the water slowed, calm, safe. The issue was my floating line would lie across the varying speeds of river water. Each would push the line downstream and pull the fly at an unnatural speed across the feeding zone.
The answer was a cast upstream of where they rose, a lift of the rod tip, and a pull on the fly line as the line stretched taut through the air. Create slack, or slop, in the line when it landed on the river. The current would quickly send the line downstream, but sufficient slack—if done right—allowed for my fly to float above the feeding fish at a natural pace. I would have two or three seconds before the current tightened the line slop and my tiny presentation would rocket downstream, alerting my prey of a bogus offering.
The large trout continued feeding, my focus all-consuming. Air, water, fish. And me. The universe shrunk to this pinpoint of concentrated effort on the Big Lost. One, two, three false casts, the line lengthened with each forward and back motion. It zipped through the air well upstream of the feeding fish and avoided spooking them from an overhead shadow. The final cast. A quick lift of the rod tip and light pull, the green fly line suspended, slack, frozen in the bright light. A gentle descent, slack line immediately pushed downriver. My fly kissed the surface three feet upriver from the last dimple of a rising trout and floated, sedate, drifting.
