The gravel road dipped long and low between ridges, rising toward the horizon, then fading. Fence posts, dark black, and listing, held up rusty, sagging wire. Way up the valley, a grove of poplar, birch, and maple pushed down the flanks of steep, rocky hills, pulling up short on the flat, grassy bottom. A red-shouldered hawk circled counter clockwise; once, twice, three times before gliding away over the treetops.

The tires slammed in and out of craters, splattering muddy water across the windshield. At the cattle guard, the car slowed to a crawl, then made a left at nothing more than a pair of ruts in oozing muck. The car fish-tailed repeatedly, throwing long roostertails of mud into the wet, greasy grass. The road lowered, twisting around a clump of withered, partially burned spruce trees. At the bottom of the hill a small wash ran across the road, and a single set of ruts emerged on the other side. The car accelerated toward the cloudy liquid and crashed into the water sending waves outward. Tires spinning and cutting into the slope on the other side, the vehicle just cleared the crest, caught some traction, shot forward, and stalled. Steam rose from the overheated machinery.

The door opened, and a tall, wiry fellow in faded jeans, dusty, pointed boots, and denim shirt emerged. He banged on the trunk, and it popped open, nodding. He sat on the bumper, putting on hip boots, vest, and then stringing up a rod. A few small, puffy clouds pushed in over the distant mountains, then vanished while he tied on a fly. He could hear the sound of music, light and laughing, now and then through the trees. The sun broke over the rise, and a rusty red glow set fire to the trees, the man, and sparkled on the drops of muddy water trickling from the car’s grill.

There was a path, a deer trail more likely, through the low, scruffy pines. He jammed a faded yellow Stetson on his burnt leather forehead, slammed the trunk, and moved deliberately into the forest. A series of brooks and gulches crossed the path at sharp angles, black banks slick from the recent storms, water running purposefully toward the river. A broken beaver dam formed a crossing of sorts at the last tributary, and the man hopped across the sticks and mud, cutting sharply down a ravine toward the sing-song of restless water.

The stream was too big to call a creek, although some of the old timers at the general store insisted on calling it that. And it wasn’t really big enough to call a river, although soon, when the warmth of May turned the snow to liquid, it would swell to 9 or 10 times its normal size. But now, in early April, it was not large but steady, not flashy but predictable, not easy but workable. The man stood still in the trees, watching the rippling surface of an oblong turquoise pool fed by a drop and augmented by a waterfall on its flank.

A red deer drank by the falls, soft shell-colored spots on its haunches, its ears flickering back as it lowered its head to the cold water. The deer walked gingerly away from the water, watched by two sets of eyes. It grazed on the soft stalks of new growth, working its way slowly parallel to the river. The man saw something shift across the water in the trees, and the deer bolted, covering the small meadow in two tremendous leaps.

The man stepped into the water, his rubber-bottomed boots slipping on the cobbles, and steadied himself by grabbing a root extending at right angles from the bank. He unhooked the long bucktail, pinched on a split shot a few inches up the line, and dipped his rod behind him, letting the current take line out for him. When the right amount of line was out, he raised the rod, accelerating it, then pulling sharply on the line. The bucktail sailed low and straight toward the head of the pool, penetrating the cascading water like a knife.

He waited, counting to ten, then began stripping the line downstream in long fast pulls. The line stopped up sharp, and the water shattered and shot into the air. He pinched down on the line, stripping with the line-hand as the current forced the trout toward him. When it ran for his feet he deftly lifted the rod, and the fish’s own momentum carried it up on to the gravel. He slipped a hand under the large belly of the olive and black fish, pale peach spots like those on the red deer glistening, and slid it back into the water. He preferred cutts for dinner, and up ahead there was nice riffle just full of them.

Text and photos Copyright 2003 by Gary Watt