How many times had he driven this road?
As long it was clear, the highway to the
valley floor was an enchanting hour through scenic mountain passes; snow or
traffic could turn it into endless purgatory. He calmly zipped through the hairpin turns, the isolated storefront
towns, and the jealously hoarded passing lanes with quiet acknowledgment.
Like so many times before, the urge to embark
upon this hopeful road was motivated by simple quests: time content in
solitude, wandering through ancient rainforests, and feeling the pulse of a
fabled river rushing around him. The
all-consuming question was: would those goals converge for him on this
trip? The relationship between quest and
question varied greatly. Making the right
connection was the key.
He lived near an established winter ski haven, but the gauntlet of the tourist season had not quite kicked in yet. So traffic was still relatively light. Relatively. It used to be, that during the Spring and Fall shoulder seasons, the town would be practically deserted. Those were the times the locals would walk the trails and beaches. But more and more, the stream of cars racing up the hill during those once treasured times was growing into a constant blur. As a result, locals were becoming more and more scarce. Already, a lot of them had moved away to quieter places where a home was still affordable, and they could resume their aspirations of getting away from it all. In his heart, he knew that time would someday come for him too. He just hoped that someday would not come before he was ready.
Then again, regardless of where he lived, he would always take pleasure in poring over maps and planning his next adventure. Where he lived, Nature had created hundreds of lakes and streams; a lifetime and more could be spent getting to know them all. Wild fish even dwelled in the small creek near his backyard providing convenient after-work engagements during the long days of summer. He knew that it had been the right move to leave the confines of the city for the open air of the mountains. Even so, he was always ready to hit the road to explore new places, or visit promising old ones.
All along the valley highway, abandoned farms and run-down silos stood like theatres whose stages had gone forever dark. He could still remember the days when these places were bright with activity, when cultured fields proudly displayed the achievements of diligent performers. It was apparent that the sons and daughters of these hard-working folks were entertaining other thoughts about how to make a living off the land. Everywhere, signs of realtors were posted, indicating the trend to sell it off to developers, parcel by parcel. He wondered how long it would be before the suburbs of the city he sought to break away from stretched all the way to his backdoor. Then it will be time to move on
Listening to hours of oldies stations brought him to the town of Leeville, which sat solemnly at the junction to the highway leading North. The Welcome to Leeville sign was partly obscured by a broken down rusting hulk of a station wagon parked on flat tires with the hood popped up. There was no doubt it was missing various vital parts and would not be moving under its own power ever again.
Central to Leeville was the Whispering Pine, a bygone establishment that provided a flickering chance for travelers to grab a bite and fill up the tank. Judging by the gear piled in the rigs outside, the few patrons there looked to be fishermen. As he entered, a handful of them gave him knowing glances before turning back to their reserved conversations. A burly man, whom he took to be the chef, stepped out from the kitchen through swinging louvered doors and one of the slats fell to the worn linoleum with a loud slap. The chef surveyed the room and nonchalantly shuffled the fallen member back toward the sizzling clouds and fiery cauldrons. Evidently, several of the other slats had also gone this way. The fish and chips came from a frozen box, but to someone who hadn't eaten since lunch, they hit the spot. Fabulous food was something he could get in the city, perhaps on his next trip. And a warm bowl of Yulee's red curry chicken would make it well worth the three-hour drive. He left the Whispering Pine thinking of his former life in the big city and wondering what kinds of changes it was going through.
The taste of curry was still drifting across his mental palate when the pale blue sign for the Lone River Inn materialized out of thick fog. Even in the hazy darkness, it was apparent that the exterior needed some maintenance. A petulant woman, who looked like she had not slept in years, traded the room key for his money in a short, mostly wordless transaction. But the room she gave him was clean, and most importantly it was warm and dry. The bare bulb in the center of the flaking ceiling was quickly exchanged for the softer glow of the table lamp. On the bed was a brown, orange, and green polyester fashion disaster somebody was actually paid to make. He flopped down on the sagging mattress and laughed, thinking of all the things he had done to put him there in that place, at that time.
For a peaceful moment, he let his mind drift in and out of awareness until time was forgotten. When time returned, he sat up and reached for his pack. The old fly rod was pulled from its ragged case and laid reverently on the outrageous bedspread. Although it was long ago, it seemed like yesterday that his Father had passed the relic rod, with its vivid history, over to him. The finish was worn, and the cork on the handle was dark and missing a few chunks. It had obviously seen a lot of use. He looked at the battered piece of equipment for a moment and decided it was time to start looking for a newer rod to use - instead of this cherished heirloom. It deserved a prominent place on the den wall. One more fish and then he would retire it. The line and leader were prepared and adorned with a fly of his own design, patterned after the Silver Hilton. He drifted off to sleep with the colors of the bedspread still burning in his retinas.
But sleep was uneasy. Several times, he recoiled in the night while attempting to set the hook on elusive chrome fish. The first one struck at 1:20am. Go back to sleep 2:46... Not yet! Although he hoped to someday rid himself of the unfortunate habit, he never slept soundly when the next day had fishing on the agenda. To add to that challenge, at 4:47am someone next door started hacking their brains out. He laid there in the dark, listening to the relentless cough and despondently glancing at the cynical clock until it read 5:33am. Might as well get moving...
The Lone River Inn was located on the edge of Glenburg, a once quaint little hub until the flood of '64 wiped out most of it. n Since then, a lot of folks had moved on and the town had gradually faded from favor except for Roy's Diner. The early bird special, which consisted of eggs and bacon, and the best biscuits this side of the Mississippi, kept a loyal clientele. Old signs of assorted shapes and sizes decorated the walls in chaotic splendor, and a height marker prominently displayed the level the river had risen to during that 100-year flood. He always made a point of having breakfast at Roy s anytime he was in the area. And he always left a good tip.
As the grey dawn gently lifted the heavy mists hanging over the area, shadows of the rainforest began to unfold. The giant redwoods, towering over the rest, surveyed his movements in omnipresent silence. It was hard not to feel humbled by them; majestic beings they were. The air smelled fresh and earthy, and brought back pleasant memories of times he had been there with friends, just to see the trees.
Another memory was of a book he had seen at a local shop a while back, Timber Barons . Leafing through the pages, he was struck with the realization that, all of the old money throughout history came from exploitation of some resource, be it materials or labor. In this case, it was both. But in his mind, the ancient redwoods really paid the price. So did the salmon and steelhead due to the resulting soil erosion from the barren turf. Finally, after years of mismanagement, the fishermen were feeling it too. Everything in the world was connected somehow.
He drove along the winding road skirting the river until he found the giant redwood that marked an old access road. Although it would not normally be seen as such, the locked access gate in this case presented a welcome barrier. It all depended on which side of the fence you were on.
It was last year that Fate introduced him to an old timer sitting at the counter having breakfast at Roy s. Ernest Haviland, who had lived in these hills for over 75 years, swore that Roy s bacon and eggs were the best deal anywhere. He had a traditional mountain man look about him with a thick grey beard and intense blue eyes that shone from under a weathered brim hat. Over a cup of coffee, he fluidly related the local lore with astonishing detail. It soon became obvious that, aside from being an astute historian, he was also a fisherman. A distant look came to his face when he spoke of past battles with giant salmon back in the days when they were so thick you could walk across the river on their backs . And a genuine gleam came to his eye when the topic turned to steelhead. Twenny-pounders were fairly common then, back in the days when fish were still viewed as an unlimited resource.
He sat with Ernest long after the plates were cleared, knowing it was a rare opportunity to meet men like that men who not only knew the history, they had lived it. He thought about the bygone good ole days Ernest had experienced, and suddenly wished he had been born sooner. Ernest became noticeably quiet for a moment, and then turned to him, I know a good place where you can fish steelhead, he said raising an eyebrow, And you ll probably be the only one there With a shaking index finger, Ernest pointed out the location on the map to land that had been in his family for generations, and graciously granted him passage.
1903 The combination was as fresh in his mind as the day Ernest had bestowed it upon him. With a metallic shriek, the gates to private water swung open. Make sure you lock up behind you.
The steep road had not been maintained for quite some time, but it soon leveled off to the smooth stones of the riverbed edges, which popped and crunched under the tires. A small sigh of relief came upon discovering there in fact was no one else there. Due to the recent rains, the water had the classic greenish tint; and it screamed steelhead. An eagle appeared and swept gracefully down the river channel until it faded into the mist. Somewhere out there, beyond land s end was the ocean - to which everything was connected.
He stared at the water and could feel the anticipation rising. In his head, he could hear his Father s voice, Study the water before you even get near it. You might want to make your first casts from there. A fish could just as likely be right in front of you as on the other side. There were almost a dozen prime-looking spots to try here and he did not want to rush into any one of them. Coming from the outside world of fierce competition to this placid oasis was something almost beyond belief. Even if he did not feel a fish all day, it would be a pleasure just to be there.
Entering at the shallow end of an S-curve, he made a few practice swings to get the rhythm going and soon just the right amount of line and mending had the fly ticking the bottom in time with the current. Every little tick made his heart beat a little harder. He felt the presence of the great trees watching him. You ll know when it s a fish He knew he had the drift right and that a fish could happen on the next cast. Or maybe the next...
It didn t. Nor did it on the next hundred. Hours flew by in repetitive motion. How many times had he performed this ritual? It was not like saying Hail Mary s where the number was finite. The steelhead was not called the fish of a thousand casts without good reason. To most, that provided a good reason not to even bother. But they had never felt the raw energy the ocean delivers through a steelhead. And that was fine with him.
In a slot that looked just at good as the last, the unmistakable take of a fish nearly tore the rod from his hands. He stripped the line back through the guides to set the hook and lifted the rod tip. The line ripped back out furiously as a silvery flash erupted in the green riffle and then charged maniacally downstream. The reel screamed and the old rod bowed low to the power of the steelhead, getting further away with every violent thrust of the tail. The man saw that one of the rod guides had yanked loose during the initial jolt and was hanging on the line. His heart started pounding in his head and his ears rang with adrenalin. Peripherals seemed to blur, except for the tunnel focused on the line zipping through the water.
The gravel bar extended out quite a ways, and ended up in a deep slack water pool. It was a good salmon hole, and with any luck, a good place to get some line back. Let the rod wear him out, and don t give him any slack! The fish ran up and down the pool like a wild stallion, rapidly peeling out line and then grudgingly giving some of it back. The arbor knot connected to the reel was only a few wraps away, and the mighty presence on the other end of that line showed little sign of tiring.
The man was getting tired however, and could feel his body starting to groan. His arms were burning, and the tendons in them felt stretched. Needles pierced the flesh on his back in spasms, and his legs were shaking. He looked despairingly at the few final wraps left on his spool, the dangling rod guide, and then at the trees, standing firm on the opposite shore. They looked larger than ever.
Then, the tension eased a bit. The fish was coming in! The knot connecting the main line to the backing rose from the green water like Excalibur, and slowly, it came back on the reel. But he still needed to coax the brute into the shallows and actually land it. Several times, the fish came nearly within reach. And then more line would peel out as it vanished into the depths of the pool. Gradually, the pumping of the rod diminished, and the great contender was finally led in. The man grabbed the wrist of its tail and lifted it slowly from the river. He could hardly believe the size of it. It was huge.
Cast in the ocean s mint, flawless silvery armor shimmered brightly against the jade water backdrop. He had landed the fish of a thousand casts, maybe even one in a million In all his years of fishing, it was unquestionably the largest steelhead he had ever seen alive. He slid the hook out and gently lowered the fish into the current. Go make more! he said to the fish. Immediately, it began swimming and disappeared with a great thrust of its tail to foster future generations. The sun pierced through the fog at that moment and the whole area became instantly brilliant. He felt thankful for all the things he had done to bring him to that place at that time. Everything felt connected.
Pretty close to twenny pounds I d say! came a voice from behind. With a start, he swerved around, almost falling over. There, standing on the shore in the bright light with a smile even brighter, was Ernest Haviland. It was a nice day for a walk so I thought I d take one down here! Ernest shouted over the rushing water. It was good to see him again. One did not meet men like Ernest Haviland everyday, and it was plain that much could be learned if one took the time to listen. It was also plain that the old fly rod was ready for retirement. There would be breakfast at Roy s in the morning, and then the long drive home.
If home was on the
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