Blood
Sport
Blood
Sport
A JOURNEY UP
THE HASSAYAMPA
by Robert F. Jones
Skyhorse Publishing would like to thank Robert Munsicker and the Roger Hane Scholarship Fund at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia for providing the original cover artwork created by Roger Hane for the first edition of Blood Sport, published in 1974.
Copyright © 2013 by Louise Jones
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-62873-440-9
Printed in the United States of America
FOR LOUISE (who liked it),
LESLIE (who hated it),
AND BENNO (who may yet have to live it).
Just as the water of the famed Hassayampa renders those who drink of it incapable of telling the truth . . .
—SPARSE GREY HACKLE
Part I
1
THE HASSAYAMPA RIVER, a burly stream with its share of trout, rises in northern China, meanders through an Indian reservation in central Wisconsin, and empties finally into Croton Lake not a mile from where I live in southern New York State. Over the years, my son and I have hunted and fished most of its length. On the opening day of trout season, there is usually a fine, translucent collar of ice along the edges of the larger pools, and when my son was younger I would build a small fire on the bank and he would heat stones in it. While I fished, with only the most sporadic of success in the cold brown water of that early season, he placed the hot stones on the ice and squatted there, Indian fashion, until one stone, then another and another melted its way through the ice and sank to the bottom. The bubbles, he tells me, often were trapped beneath the clear ice—bubbles of steam that shrank as they cooled.
“They writhed and changed shape and moved around beneath the ice like germs under a microscope,” he said. “You had your trout and I had my bubbles.”
2
BECAUSE OF ITS LENGTH and the immense range of country it traverses, the Hassayampa yields an incredible variety of flotsam. Playing along the river as a boy—I was Tarzan and Shif’less Sol Hyde, Bomba or Broken Hand, Markhead, Og, The Last Man off Wake Island—I collected a representative sampling of its gifts. They occupy four shelves in my study, the collection loosely divided into “Natural Gifts” and “Unnatural Gifts.”
Among the Natural Gifts: eagle skulls, turtle shells, pumice stones warped by time and water into the heads of cretins; seeds of all colors and sizes—some as bright as a chickadee’s eye, others as dull as tennis balls; driftwood snakes and driftwood dragons; a single driftwood tit, its erect nipple as pink and smooth as a petrified rose petal; jawbones with teeth in them; the slender saw of a fox mouth, the crosscut weaponry of a freshwater shark; the weathered pizzle of a wild ox (how it survived the water trip I do not know, but even today it is as hard and smooth as mahogany; perhaps it drifted down on an ice floe); a rat nose; some leg bones, ribs, pelvises large and small, spines and beaks and shards of skulls whose eyelessness says “O”—the river is a floating abattoir.
Among the Unnatural Gifts: bamboo flutes and willow whistles; crossbow bolts; a bent and rusty belt buckle, tediously restored with oil and lacquer, that reads GOTT MIT UNS; bamboo flutes adorned with copper wire from World War II Japanese armatures; a set of nesting bowls cut from human skulls—prime, adolescent, infantile—and decorated with the symbols of an indecipherable, interlocking geometry that some of my more learned friends say comes from another star; ax handles; a snake- skin condom; a rotting Ho Chi Minh sandal sliced from high- grade rubber and bearing the phrase VITESSE RAPIDE; a set of wind chimes strung on copper wire from World War II American armatures; a gill-net float of tarred white pine into which someone carved the stylized face of a rodent; a cigar box containing a mummified hand still clenched around the hilt of a samurai sword that had been broken off short against the guard . . .
I found the cigar box on a winter’s morning, down on the Hassayampa where I had come in search of steelhead. The big, sea-run rainbows had arrived under a sleet storm the previous night. I could see them working their way up through the riffles, dark and agile in the grooves of the outer banks where the current had cut freeways beneath the roots of the maple-and-hemlock shore. The fish held in the soft spots where the current broke itself on those dying roots, shadowed by fiber and blue in the occasional clouds of marl that broke from the banks above. Casting into the head of the riffle to drift my spawn sack, orange and slimy, wrapped in a square of hairnet, down to the lounging trout, I snagged the cigar box. The hand, when I opened the box, was so small and crisp that at first I could not identify it. It was the sword’s haft that gave me the clue. If it’s holding a sword, it’s got to be human. . . .
The Hassayampa as a burial ground.
3
SHORTLY AFTER MY SON had mastered the fly rod, I took him on a long backpacking trip into the Altyn Tagh mountain range, where the Hassayampa rises. The trip would be good for him, I reasoned. He was a bit of a sissy—crying when his mother refused to make waffles for his breakfast, a master of the repressed snivel, relying on a combination of charm and hurt feelings to wheedle things out of his elders. He prefers not to fight, though like the proverbial rat, he will when cornered. Still, it is difficult to find the right corner for him. When asked what he would do if he were to be drafted into a war, he says he would move to the city, change his name to Joe, and get a job as a bus driver. What if he were caught? He would join the Marines, because they have tough uniforms and teach their men karate. Often he lies awake at night contemplating such spooky concepts as infinity and eternity. What are his feelings during these sleepless nights? He shudders and says he would rather not talk about it.
If naiveté is an open sore and cynicism a scab, the Hassayampa should put a few scars on him. On the first night out, I thought it only fair to warn him that the upper river was far different, indeed far more dangerous, than the stretch he and I had fished near our home.
“There are bandits and predators,” I told him. “Even some ghosts.”
We were camped among pines in a shallow swale on an eastern slope, so as to be awakened at first light. The pine fire popped and guttered, but the shadows it cast were yellow and warm. I took the 9mm Luger pistol from my pack. Its leather holster gleamed in the firelight; the weapon itself, when I drew it, glowed.
“Do you think we’ll need it?” my son asked, his eyes the same color as the Luger. “Where do you shoot for on a predator? Or on a bandit? Or on a ghost?” I told him, and then we drank some cocoa and went to sleep. The next morning, after he fetched the water, he told me remorsefully that he had dreamed of neck shots and head shots.
4
MY FATHER DIED on the Hassayampa the month before I was born. He was cutting timber in the dark—hardwoods, my mother said. I have a photograph taken of him at the time. In it
, he is wearing knee-length lace-up boots, stagged trousers and a heavy wool shirt with a checked pattern. His hair is windblown, and he is smiling under his moustache. He is a tall man, lean, with strong hands. There is snow on the ground, and a whiskey bottle stands on a tree stump in the distance. In those days, you could get $50 for a black walnut tree, $35 for a maple, $22.50 for a chestnut.
Some say he was crushed by a falling tree; others, that he fell through the ice and drowned. A friend of mine, a physician, feels it may have been a heart attack. But he has never seen the photograph. My uncle, who tends to exaggerate, has always maintained that he was murdered by the Outlaw Ratanous. When I was young, I preferred to believe my uncle’s suspicions: it was pleasant to fall asleep vengeful. Now I’m not so sure.
I had many copies made of the photograph. Some are walletsized; others are suitable for framing. When I am bored or unhappy, I take out the photograph (or else stare at the one on the wall) and wonder what my father was smiling about. After a while, the answer always comes: the Hassayampa.
On the second night of our trip to the Altyn Tagh, my son and I made camp early so that we could get in a little fishing before dark. We pitched our tent on a sandy point at the foot of a long chain of rapids. I explained to the boy that if it rained upstream during the night, we might get washed out by a rise in the river, but that it was worth taking the chance since the sky to the west, where the weather usually originated, was clear and the late sun was reddening. On the point, we would not be so badly bug-bitten. He said that was okay. On his first cast with a small bucktail into the main pool, he hooked a fair-sized fish that jumped and tail-walked its way clear across the dark, marbled surface of the Hassayampa. The drag sounded like a wounded crow.
“Oh, you sumbitch!” my son yelled as the fish started grey-hounding up the pool.
“It’s a striped marlin,” I told him. “Next thing, he’ll sound.”
My son cast me a doubtful glance—a freshwater marlin?—but kept the pressure on the fish. Sure enough, it sounded. For the next hour and a half, my son pumped and reeled, pumped and reeled, with the fish stripping back all the line the boy had gained before it could dry on the spool. “Shit!” he said. “I think he’s foul-hooked. Or maybe tail-wrapped. I can’t move the bastard!” I told him to take it easy—we had plenty of time. He began to sweat, and a sullen twist came to his lips. Finally, though, we saw color—the blue-and-silver flash with the wobbly black stripes.
“I’ll get the gaff,” I told him.
“No,” he said. “Let’s just bill him and release him. They’re not worth eating anyway. What the hell would we do with two hundred and fifty pounds of marlin meat?”
The trip was a gift to the boy, so I let him have his way. I billed the marlin and cut the leader. I could just make out the white blur of the bucktail in the side of the fish’s jaw as the light failed and his rough bill slapped back into the Hassayampa. That night we dined on Spam and beans, but it didn’t rain.
5
ABOVE THE POOL where my son caught the freshwater marlin, the river grew wicked. Cliffs impeded our progress; swamps stuck their mosquitoes up our noses. We swatted steadily at blackflies. Briers caught and cut. Our sweat—the venom of civilization-stung in the wounds. We could hardly wait for night.
In the evenings, we read to each other beside the campfire from our few favorite books. We had packed them along regardless of the extra weight. I read to my son from Myerson’s massive tome, Strange Waters: The Hassayampa Through Time & History (Macmillan, 1923, 847 pages): “No less an American than Jefferson seriously believed that prehistoric creatures long since pronounced ‘extinct’ by science, the mastadon and the sabre-toothed tiger among them, still survived on the upper reaches of the Hassayampa. Indeed there is evidence to support Jefferson’s contention. To this day, Hassayampan hunters sipping their gruel in the smoky wats of Tor and Hymarind occasionally mutter dim yarns concerning massive animals—vague and awesome shapes, importunate but hesitant as well—that appear betimes through the shifting, chilly gauze of a vernal blizzard to trumpet in the dark beyond the last bright tongues of the campfire. Perhaps they are merely yaks, but . . .
“Hey, listen to this!” my son chirps in the smoky, shifting gauze of our own campfire. “ ‘Tom slammed the ship into hyperdrive and soon they were alongside the hulk of their erstwhile enemy. ‘Gee,’ said Tom, in a voice tinged both by pride and horror, ‘We really zapped em,’ The alien spacecruiser had been ripped open like a can of paint by their lasers. Out of the ragged gashes in its hull, the six-limbed bodies of its far-travelled crew spun like rimless wagonwheels to gleam in the sickly light of nearby Betelgeuse . .
There was a crunch in the alders beyond our campfire. Then we heard a faint whinnying. My son whipped out the Luger and shot into the dark. Something whimpered and crunched back into the alders. The boy looked at me, frightened.
“Okay,” I said finally. “You only wounded it. Because of the dark, we don’t dare follow it up right now. We’ll wait until morning.”
“It had teeth, I know that much,” he answered.
At dawn we followed the blood trail up through the alders into a meadow high above the Hassayampa. The few trees in the meadow had been heavily browsed, and the yellow grass was trampled flat in their shade. It was stiflingly hot. As we rested in the shifting shade, we watched a praying mantis as it waited for a kill, high on a heap of dung. When we resumed our tracking, the blood trail was dry. Ants had found it and were carrying away large flakes of dried blood.
The animal itself lay dead at the edge of a stream, its head in the purling water.
“It’s a mastodon,” my son said as we neared the body.
“Let’s wait a minute,” I said. “It may not be dead.” I handed him the Luger and told him to put a bullet back of the animal’s ear to be sure. The flies flushed at the shot. As mastodons go, this one was a runt—only four feet high at the shoulder—but we chopped out its ivory and peeled the tender meat from the backbone. Already buzzards were circling, and ticks waddled from the cooling orifices of the mastodon’s ears. We carried the ivory back down to the Hassayampa and cached it under an uprooted willow tree, to pick up on the way back home.
“Gee,” said the boy, in a voice tinged by both pride and horror, “Myerson’s right.”
6
NOW AND THEN, sleepless in my mummy bag as the fire died, I could not be certain that I had come up the Hassayampa on so innocent a mission as the outdoor education of my son. Sometimes I thought I was making the trip in pursuit of Ratanous. Over the years I had come to call him Ratnose. In the shallows of sleep I could see him dimly, thin in his fur coat (wolfskin? ratskin?) with his arms extended sideways, only his sharp nose highlighted by the fading fire. Occasionally I caught a whiff of him: sharp, sour sweat and rotten teeth, knifing through the smell of warm ash; my heart would pump crazily the way it had when I was a child and Ratnose lurked in my closet, or behind the attic door across the hall from my bedroom.
Ratanous had been hanging around too long. I thought we had killed him years ago and dumped his body, throat-shot, into the icy Hassayampa. But he kept turning up, or seeming to turn up. I could not even be sure he existed, except that other people whose judgment I trust seem to think they have seen him here and there. I saw him once at the end of a dark alley in Nagoya, standing in a group of transvestites, and another time walking up a road on Mount Kenya with a band of Wakamba, but both times he got away before I could reach him. I did not even know how he came by his name, or when I had first heard it, who told it to me or whether perhaps I had given it to him myself. He had never harmed me, but I knew without doubt that he could. (Not necessarily that he would, but I couldn’t be sure.) I would have to kill him, or try to kill him—that was clear enough. Maybe he was up the Hassayampa. It would be his kind of country, as it was mine: empty and high and bleak, full of ruins and large animals.
7
THE BACKSTRAPS of the mastodon consumed, we searched for more m
eat. I knew there was a vast, warm lagoon only a short distance from the Hassayampa, near the foot of Mount Pyngyp, and that we were certain at this time of year, on this most southerly loop of the river, to find waterfowl there for our larder. Canvasbacks and blue-winged teal, mallards and sprig, perhaps a few brant or a family of Canada geese. We would not need skiffs or blinds or decoys or retrievers: the Hassayampans in this vicinity hunted their waterfowl the hard way. We would do the same, wading the lagoon up to our armpits amid the snakes and the caimans, flighting the birds with our gunfire and killing them high overhead in their panic.
We slogged through the swamp toward the lagoon, inhaling mosquitoes, spooking birds and snakes ahead of us, our boots accumulating the foul fecal mud with every step until our feet resembled the root balls of transplanted saplings. “It’s only a little ways more,” I said. “Anything for meat. Just think: Half a dozen fat mallards stuffed with wild celery turning on the spit! Goose liver! Tender little teal that we’ll eat in two bites, bones and all!” My son grunted and spat out a mouthful of entomology.
The lagoon spread before us like hammered steel, its horizontal tension cut by sprays of spring-green reeds. We could hear the waterfowl gabbling: the gibberish of duck talk interrupted now and then by the crabby complaints of the geese. There was continuous motion over the lagoon. The family feuds of the duck folk—Anas discors, Anas platyrhynchos platyrhynchos, Histrionicus histrionicus pacificus—are open-ended, and always the subclans and cliques were flying away in high dudgeon, bitching as they sculled their way through the air to another part of the swamp like so many outraged in-laws. A duck in flight is always in a sulk. “Okay,” I said, ‘you wade on around there to the right—take it slow and easy and look out for the potholes. With all that ammo in your pockets, you’ll sink like the Bismarck. I’ll ease on around to the left. When I shoot, the ducks will get up all over the lagoon. Wait until some of them start moving over you and then cut loose. Pick up your dead and your crips right away and stick their heads through your belt loops, but keep your eyes peeled because they’ll keep coming as long as we keep shooting. And don’t worry about the snakes— they’ll get out of your way.”
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