Trout Quintet

by Steve Raymond

  And then suddenly I knew what I had to do.

  “You look like hell,” Seifer said when I got to the breakfast table.

  “That’s because I feel like hell.”

  “I suppose that’s partly my fault. Or maybe all my fault. No sleep?”

  “Not a wink. I had a lot on my mind.” He waited for me to say something else, but I didn’t. Instead, I gulped my first of three cups of strong coffee, passed up the opportunity to order a custom omelet, and told Ennis to bring me some oatmeal instead.

  Seifer regarded me thoughtfully as he ate his breakfast. “You up to fishing today?” he asked finally.

  “Sure. But we need to talk first.”

  He nodded, waited until I was finished and we were alone in the dining room. Except for Anders, sitting at one of the other tables.

  “So?” he said.

  “This was not an easy decision for me,” I said, “but I’ve decided to accept your challenge. I hereby give you my solemn word that I will never again accept a free trip or write a misleading story.”

  “Wonderful! I’m so glad to hear you say that.” He got up, came over and gave me a hug and a handshake.

  “Wait a minute,” I told him. “I’m not done yet. There are a couple of things you need to understand. First, I’m not going to be able to influence anybody else to follow the straight and narrow because I’m about to be out of a job.”

  “Well, I certainly hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “It will. I’m not exaggerating. By this time next week, I’ll be unemployed. And the second thing is, I hope now you understand that the gloves are off, and when I write about this place I’ll be free to say anything I please.”

  He smiled. “I’ll take the chance,” he said. “And by the way, if you should end up in the unemployment line, give me a call. I might be able to find something for you.”

  “I can’t do that,” I answered. “That would be like taking a bribe, and I just promised I wasn’t going to do that anymore.”

  “I guess it would at that,” he said thoughtfully. “Here I’ve just saved your soul and made an honest man of you and I’m already trying to corrupt you again. Sorry.”

  That was pretty much the end of the conversation, so we went fishing. This time we fished Bright Creek, which was almost a duplicate of Cave Creek except that it held rainbow. The fishing was almost as tough as it had been in Cave Creek. I spent the morning putting down trout despite my best efforts to avoid making any noise and by lunch had hooked nothing. The hatch, however, had been sparse, but it picked up noticeably in the afternoon and the trout became more active. I lost one fine rainbow after a long fight, then hooked another and for once did everything right. Dalton netted it for me and told me it weighed three pounds, eleven ounces on his net scale.

  I spent the last hour of the afternoon stretched out on the bench of a picnic table in one of the shelters, trying to catch a nap. I don’t even remember what was for dinner because I could barely stay awake, and as soon as dessert was out of the way I excused myself and headed for my room—not only because I was exhausted, but also because I wanted to avoid another conversation with Seifer. There was no telling what else he might be able to talk me into doing.

  The next morning we fished Laughing Creek, a freestone stream full of cutthroat. It was a noisier, faster stream than either of the others, which made it easier to approach the trout without putting them down. The fast current also gave the trout less time to inspect each floating fly before deciding to take it, and they often guessed wrong. That made them easier to catch, as the brochure had promised. By the time we quit in late afternoon I’d brought something like a dozen to the bank, although the largest was barely two and a half pounds. Still, it had been a great last day of free fishing.

  Dinner was a glorious Cornish hen served with an equally glorious Chardonnay, and afterward I lingered with Seifer in the great room long enough to smoke another Cuban cigar and drink another snifter of cognac. Neither of us talked about anything very serious, and then I excused myself on grounds that I needed to begin working on the story of my stay at Troutwaters Lodge. “Remember, the gloves are off,” I told Seifer.

  “I’m not too worried.”

  When I got to my room, I actually did begin working on the story, using the laptop I’d brought with me. I was feeling a little perverse and started trying to put down anything I could think of that bothered me about Troutwaters. First was the fishing, which really was tough; my guess was that most average fly fishers would have at least as much trouble as I’d had on the spring creeks. Then, of course, there was Seifer’s missionary zeal and his efforts to make a “convert” out of me, although I knew I’d have to sort of write around that without saying exactly what he was trying to do; otherwise I’d look pretty foolish. I probably would anyway.

  What else? I’d felt a little uncomfortable the whole time I was there because I just wasn’t used to such luxurious surroundings, or the etiquette that went with them. What, for example, are you supposed to do with that little fork they put on the other side of your plate? Is that for salad, or an appetizer? Or dessert? Was it proper for me to refill my own wineglass, or should I have waited for the server to do it? Should I tip anyone? If so, who? Dalton? What about Ennis? Or the chef? And how much? Or should I not tip at all? And so on.

  Then I realized I was being petty. All those were problems I had, they weren’t things that were wrong with the lodge. The truth was that Troutwaters Lodge might just be the ultimate trout-fishing experience in the world, as the brochure promised. Certainly its accommodations, service, and cuisine were world-class—maybe even the world’s best. And I can say that honestly, because I didn’t have a free trip; I had paid for it—maybe not with money, but with my future.

  I finished my story, saved it on my laptop, packed my gear, and went to bed.

  After breakfast the next morning there were handshakes all around and I drove with Dalton and Seifer—and the ever-present, ever-silent Anders—to the airstrip and boarded the trout-spotted Gulfstream for the trip home. While we were in the air, I thought about everything that had happened during my three days at Troutwaters. I’d had my ethics “upgraded,” as Seifer put it, but felt more as if my soul had been laundered. I decided it was a good feeling to have a freshly laundered soul.

  After we landed, I stopped by the office, printed out a copy of my Troutwaters story and dropped it on my boss’s desk—he was away, probably having lunch. Then I went home. That’s where I’m writing this, a postscript that isn’t part of the story my boss is probably reading right now.

  I’m pretty sure I know what’s going to happen when he’s finished.

  So if you’re reading this in some publication other than Salmo magazine, you can safely assume I’m now among the ranks of the unemployed. My résumé is ready to hit the streets. Among other things, it says that if you hire me you can be assured that honesty is my best quality; in fact, I’m as honest as a trout.

  And I never use split shot, fish finders, or strike indicators.

  THE NEHALLIS INCIDENT

  EACH STRIDE along the abandoned logging road took Warren Kramer closer to the river and farther from a stressful week of office tedium and petty politics. With each stride he felt better.

  The woods bordering the road echoed with bird calls. He was no expert, but Warren easily recognized the songs of ubiquitous robins, the chatter of chickadees, and—what was that? A kinglet? From deeper in the woods he heard a hard, slow tapping, possibly a pileated woodpecker. From the distance came the melodious chortle of a bald eagle. Here and there were tracks in the soft earth where deer had crossed the road. There were no human footprints other than his own.

  It was at least two miles to the place where the road and the river met, but Warren was enjoying the hike, as he always did. Saturday had come at last, giving him the chance to get away from the office and the hot, crowded, noisy city and go fishing. He knew few other anglers were willing to walk two miles, which
meant he’d likely have the upper Nehallis to himself—just him and the summer steelhead. In his opinion, they were the ultimate freshwater game fish: big, seagoing rainbow trout returning to the river from a year or more of feeding in the richness of the ocean. The solitude and the steelhead would both be worth the walk.

  This is the way commuting should be, he thought—not a frenzied herd of automobiles on a misnamed freeway, with each driver straining to get ahead of all the others, speeding when they could, weaving from lane to lane when they couldn’t, then slowing and cursing when the traffic came to a stop because the freeway was jammed with cars like a shower drain clogged with hair. His weekday commute was like that, and like all the other drivers, he grew frustrated and angry with the daily ordeal of trying to be on time for a job he mostly hated.

  Today, however, he was commuting the way he thought nature intended. With each step his feeling of freedom increased. He filled his lungs with the fragrance of fir and cedar instead of exhaust fumes, and there was nothing in front of him except the empty road and the promise of the day.

  Saturday had come at last, and Warren Kramer was going fishing.

  He arrived at the familiar spot where the old road left the shaded shelter of the woods and started down a gentle slope toward the river. Morning sunlight flashed a greeting from the river’s surface, almost as if it were glad to see him; for his part, Warren was surely glad to see it.

  Scrambling down a muddy bank to a gravel bar fronting the river, he found a boulder of convenient size and sat down upon it to exchange his walking shoes for the pair of lightweight stocking-foot waders he carried in his day pack. Then he withdrew a pair of wading shoes from the pack and pulled them on over the feet of the waders, rigged his rod, chose a fly from the dozens in boxes he carried in his fishing vest, and knotted it to the end of his leader. The whole ritual took only a few moments, and when everything was ready he headed for the river.

  The river was clear and the water breathtakingly cold from the melting snows of the Cascades that were its source, and his first step into it was a delicious relief after the warm summer-morning hike. Warren enjoyed the feel of it as he waded carefully downstream over a carpet of rounded rocks to the first familiar run he planned to fish. He stopped at the head of the run, stripped line from his reel and worked it out in a series of false casts, then made his first cast, aiming the fly at a spot where the current slowed and entered a deep slot against the far bank. He mended line quickly to hold the fly where a fish might see it, but no fish came, so he took a step downstream, cast again, and repeated the process.

  Soon he was into the regular rhythm of it: cast-and-retrieve, step down, cast again. With each movement he felt more of the week’s accumulated stress ease out of him, and his spirits rose accordingly. From past fishing Saturdays he knew this would be a progressive thing, that he would feel ever better as the day wore on—better from breathing fresh air under a clear blue sky, better from the deep-down realization that, for a few hours at least, he was free from the stress of work. He would feel good even if he caught nothing.

  But soon enough he did catch something. It was not a steelhead, but one of the river’s resident rainbow, an ambitious twelve-inch trout that seized his fly, threw itself immediately into the air, then jumped twice more so quickly it almost seemed as if it were bouncing across the water. After that it began twisting and turning in the current, but it was no match for the heavy rod Warren had chosen for steelhead. He brought the little trout to hand and admired its colors—dark steel-blue on its back, silver flanks, a belly as pure white as the mountain snows melting into the river, and a rainbow stripe that exactly matched the crimson-turning leaves of the vine maples along the river. The fish felt firm and strong and alive in his hand and he marveled that cold water and a thousand insects could combine to produce such a wild, vital, beautiful creature. He envied the trout its uncomplicated life; no office politics, no getting stuck in traffic. Its only worry was about finding the next bug for a meal. With a sigh, he gently removed the hook from the trout’s jaw and returned it to the river.

  The encounter brightened his mood even more, so he wasn’t troubled when he saw no steelhead in that first run, or in the second or the third. By then he was feeling so good and so free he wasn’t even especially disturbed when he saw somebody sitting alone on a log near the head of the next pool downstream, one of his favorites. If another fisherman and had beaten him to the pool, that meant he’d made the same two-mile hike Warren had made, and that gave him equal rights to the river. Warren decided to let the stranger enjoy the pool and go on to the next one. That he could entertain such a generous sentiment was an indication of how good he felt just then.

  The stranger raised a hand in greeting as Warren approached. To his surprise, Warren saw he wasn’t wearing waders and had no visible fishing gear; instead, he was dressed in a checkered cotton shirt whose tail hung carelessly over a pair of faded jeans. A sweat-stained baseball cap partly covered a thick thatch of blond hair, its bill shading deep blue eyes and a freckled young face with a lopsided grin. Warren guessed the stranger was probably no more than twenty-five. Hardly more than a boy.

  He remained seated and said “Hi” as Warren walked up to him. Warren nodded back. “You’re not fishing,” he said, stating the obvious.

  “Nope. I was waiting for you.”

  “Waiting for me? I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve been watching you fish and I wanted to ask if I could borrow your equipment for a little while. So I can go fishing.”

  Warren wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “You want to borrow my equipment so you can go fishing?”

  “That’s right. I don’t have any tackle and I’ve just got to go fishing. I was hoping maybe you’d let me use your stuff. Just for a little while.”

  This guy’s a nut case, Warren thought. “But if I did that, I wouldn’t be able to fish.”

  “Yeah, I know. But you’ve already been fishing for a while. That’s why I thought you might be willing to, you know, take a little break and let me have a chance.”

  Warren felt his good mood beginning to evaporate. “Look,” he said, “I didn’t hike all the way in here to take turns fishing with somebody else. Go and get your own gear.”

  “I told you, I don’t have any. And I’m desperate to go fishing. The river’s in great shape and the steelhead are in, I know they are; I’ve seen them. I’ve just got to try it while they’re here. Please, couldn’t we just take turns? Just for a little while?”

  Warren thought the strange conversation had gone on long enough; it was time to end it. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m not about to loan you my equipment—not you or anybody else. I don’t even know you.”

  “That’s your final answer?”

  “Yes. Absolutely”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  The boy stood up, reached under his shirt, pulled out a small black revolver and pointed it at Warren. Warren caught his breath as he found himself staring into the muzzle and glimpsing bullets in the cylinder. He watched incredulously as the boy eased the hammer back and tightened his index finger around the trigger; the slightest increase in pressure would send a bullet slamming into Warren’s chest. With a sudden chill he realized there was absolutely nothing to stop the boy from shooting him; they were probably the only two people within miles. His heart raced as he tried to think of what to do. Maybe he should just turn around and walk away, but the intensity in the boy’s eyes made him quickly abandon that notion.

  “This really isn’t necessary,” he finally managed to say. But it didn’t sound right; his voice was unnaturally high and seemed far away.

  “Sorry, but you made it necessary,” the boy said. “I asked you nicely but you wouldn’t let me borrow your tackle. So now I have to do this.” He gestured toward the log where he had been sitting. “Sit down there and take off your waders.” His expression indicated it would be foolish to argue, so Warren did as he was told. He removed his day pack
first.

  “What’s in there?” the boy asked.

  “My shoes.”

  “Good. I’ll need those, too. Toss the pack over here.”

  “But I can’t walk out of here without shoes!”

  “That’s the idea. You can walk all right, but it’ll take you all day. I’ll be long gone by then.”

  Warren handed over the pack. Then he removed his vest, thinking regretfully of all the fly boxes in its pockets and the countless hours he’d spent tying the flies in them, and handed it over. Next he took off his wading shoes and waders and placed them in a pile by the log. Finally he added his fly rod with the treasured old Hardy reel his father had given him.

  His young assailant surveyed the pile with satisfaction. “Okay, now take off,” he said, gesturing with the revolver toward the woods.

  Warren took a last quick look at his fishing gear and started across the gravel bar toward the woods. The muscles in the center of his back tensed in anticipation of a bullet’s shock; he still didn’t know if the boy intended to shoot him. Rocks battered and bruised his bare feet but with the giant surge of adrenalin coursing through his system he scarcely felt the pain. Fear hastened his pace and he moved as fast as he could, not daring to look back, stumbling over the rocky rubble until his breath came short and globules of sweat trickled into his eyes. Time seemed to have slowed down; Warren felt as if he was trapped in a slow-motion film, bounding like an astronaut over a dreary moonscape of rocks, still far from the safety of the beckoning woods. He imagined the scarred and freckled rocks spattered with his blood.

  He was painfully out of breath and gasping when he finally reached the thicket of willows and scrub alders bordering the gravel bar and plunged into the embrace of their elastic limbs. They greeted him with stinging slaps to his face, but the sudden pain was almost welcome; it meant he was still alive and capable of feeling.