Though the city lay far behind, the feeling of escape had not been achieved. Despite his attempts to dwell otherwise, the blur of recent events kept rising to the forefront of his thoughts. Even Walter Harding, usually a slave driver, had noticed a strain in Dean's firm composure. Every man has his breaking point, and Dean was nearing his. It was Walter's suggestion that he take a few days off to clear his mind of the hotbed this whole desegregation issue was causing. It was a mad, mad, mad, mad world alright. And it didn't take Dean very long to figure out where he wanted to go off to.
It was a decent living working as a writer for the Philly Post, the third oldest paper in the country, quite a respectable position really. Although a career as a journalist had never occurred to him, on a whim Dean had submitted a freelance story, received a job offer as a reply, and now he was actually doing quite well. The perks were good, and he even had his own parking spot on Carter Street near the main building. Even though he held down what society would term a successful career, he still caught himself staring out the office window, drifting in currents that flowed many miles away.
Surf City came on the radio as he pulled into what was left of the town. He turned it off out of respect for the silence reigning over the air. The town had a river running through the center of it, and the weathered facades revealed that it was once a tourist destination. During the war, the tourism had dropped drastically and the labour force had either moved to work on production lines, or headed overseas to join the fray. After it was over, most of the people did not return. Dean was one of them. Now it was nearly a ghost town and here was his homecoming, a quiet Main Street Had anyone here ever read the Philly Post? He doubted it. Even so, how could his commentary on politics make much difference to these folks? He liked this town just the same, as it would always be. Somehow, the anonymity felt liberating.
Rolling down the dusty main drag, he found himself admiring the Fulbright house with its large fenced-in yard and Victorian splendor. It was once the town's prominent estate and hosted scores of celebrated gatherings. Now fallen into decay, it was a tribute to Nature's relentless process of breaking things down into their component parts, and then building them up again in a new form. So unbiased. So perfect. So complete.
The town passed in a blink, and before long he was heading down Moffat Road, driving in a trance. Somewhere ahead was the overgrown pullout hiding the old logging trail Alan Gladstone had shown him a long time ago. He was pleased to find the landmark maple was still growing strong, and that the messengers had been at work, turning the leaves into brilliant colours. Yellows and crimsons sharply contrasted against the still green surroundings. Dean looked long at the glowing tree and thought of Alan.
Though, as in most small towns, he knew of Alan Gladstone, he had never actually met him. It happened one evening after school. Dean was stalking one of his favourite holes, focused on the bulge of water around a large midstream boulder. No sooner had he placed the perfect roll cast when suddenly, like a mirror image, another line shot from the brush above him on course for the same target! 'Nice approach!' came a voice, That'll get you the big ones!
Stripping in line to avoid further tangles, Dean waded upstream to meet this intruder. There in the knee deep current stood a short, spectacled man with a wide smile revealing very white teeth. 'There's a big brown who likes that boulder, and I've been trying to catch him all season. A very promising lie, this one. 'Looks like we both have the same fancy, Eh? I didn't even see you coming!' said the smiley one. 'Nor I you!' offered Dean. 'Well, I guess great minds think alike.' said the man reassuringly. This became more apparent over a minor detangling exercise whereupon the two realized instant chemistry. Henceforth, they would be lifelong fishing buddies. Alan was much older than Dean and treated him like he son he never had.
The tree rustled a little, pulling Dean back into the present. He looked around. Judging by the lack of tire tracks and the abundance of healthy plants, the road had not lately received any use. The trail was very challenging and kept most of the 'beer can crowd' away. He patted the dash of his Jeep and turned into the undergrowth.
Once inside the canopy, the brush was actually quite minimal, and he confidently swayed over the rutted remnants of the old trail. A feeling of awakening was stirring inside him. These were some of the oldest mountains in the world. You could tell because they were so rounded off and worn down, not like the jagged peaks of the West. Soon he would be hiking into the heart of them, into the hills filled with wild brooks, and brown trout.
The hike was not easy, and Dean breathed deep of the clean air while the sun filtered its way down through the foliage. The birds greeted his arrival at every turn, and sang sweet songs of the old mountains. High spirits prevailed, and now and then the river would fade in with its bewitching rush.
Time out of mind passed, and he eventually came to the spot he was looking for. 'Boyd's Camp' was carved into a wood plank, attached to a gnarled oak with a rusty nail. The sign had seen much weather in the past twenty years and clearly had stories to tell. It marked a perfect little camp with a view of the river, and a soft-dirt flat spot to pitch a tent between two tall cedar sentinels. The sign never mentioned who 'Boyd' was.
After a swig of whisky from his flask, the tent was always the first order of business. It was the standard A-frame structure held up by a rope connected to the cedars. The tent was old, but not so old that it had its own ground cloth and door netting attached. Due to the expedition of cold weather this year, most of the mosquitoes and black flies were out of the picture. Yes, September was his favourite month. He unrolled his down bag and pulled out a clean cotton shirt to be later used as a pillowcase, filled with whatever extra clothes he wasn't wearing.
Now came the old outfit: A 5wt bamboo rod with a single pall Rainbow No 627 reel (by A.F. Meiselbach). It was given to him by his Grandfather who always professed, 'Fly fishing is the only true way to fish for trout!' Grandpa Floyd had helped him graduate from bait casting into the world of the fly on a hot August night. The surface of the old millpond was literally boiling with fish, none of which Dean could entice into striking. Meanwhile, every cast Floyd made was not only beautiful to watch, fish were being caught, with that feather thing! Finally, as the seventh trout was released, he turned and smiled, 'Let me show you how the magic works.' And that was Dean's first lesson in fly-casting. Floyd held his arm, gently guiding the motion until he let go on a forward cast. The fly had just landed when a fish sucked in the Adams and put a terrific strain on the rod. The pulsing sensation filled his heart with new life, and Dean knew right then, that he would never go back to trout fishing with clunky bait casting gear again. He mused for a while, wondering whatever happened to Mr. Meiselbach's reel company, and tied on an for Grandpa Floyd. Well, at least the reel is still in business.
Night was falling fast. Dean sat around the fire smoking his pipe and watching the silhouettes of darkness deepen in the quiet surroundings. It felt good to just be. No phones, no people, and no story to work on, just his own. The clear sky revealed a stellar display, and it was getting pretty cold. It just might frost again tonight. He climbed into the comfort of his down bag, letting the rush of the water lull him to sleep. Soon, streams of consciousness were flowing through a river of dreams.
And several dreams came. Alan was there, smiling through vivid images of the wild adventures they shared in pursuit of trout. The big brown was also there, making a special star appearance. Alan had marked a good-looking undercut bank, and with no initial success, had returned to fish it at dusk. There was indeed a resident lying in wait, a magnificent trout that went almost seven pounds, and Alan duped it into taking his Dun Variant. It leaped several times and finally wrapped the line around a deadfall and tore free. Dean was stunned into silence. Alan just smiled and said, 'That was a good one alright!' They never raised that fish again. But they always talked about it.
Birds announced the approaching dawn, prevailing over the ethereal charms of a girl Dean had once known. He soon remembered where he was, and stoked a small fire to brew some coffee. Granola was the main course for breakfast because it required no preparation. The river siren was calling loudly.
He approached the water cautiously, scanning the area for activity. A few feet from the edge of the bank, he made his first cast with the Adams. It brought a jarring strike from what turned out to be a healthy male brook trout of thirteen inches. It was brightly decorated in full spawning colours of red and yellow, and Dean decided he would keep this one. Dean released most all of his fish, and only allowed himself to keep a few when he was camping. Trout were far too valuable a resource to take for granted, and that was another thing he and Alan agreed upon. A wave of memory suddenly washed over him, and he glanced over his left shoulder as if someone might be standing there, smiling. There were only the sounds of birds and gurgling water. Dean carefully placed the trout in a soft mesh sack and tethered it in the water under the shade of an overhanging bush.
The air started to warm and a Blue Wing Olive hatch was on. Reaching into his vest, he selected a number sixteen pattern of his own design, tied while last winter was doing its worst. A cast to a downed tree was rewarded with a bruiser brown trout of about three pounds. After several wonderful leaps and a few long runs, Dean cradled the fish in the water with his left hand, admiring it while it caught its breath. It was hard to say which trout he loved more, brooks for their tenacity and colourfully speckled flanks, or browns for their wily and often challenging nature. Yes, it was hard to say, and easy to argue the merits of each.
As the morning flowed by, countless rewards came in the form of eager wild trout (both brooks and browns - popularity was not an issue), majestic scenery, and the feeling of unlimited freedom. He had the entire place to himself. The sun was warming the land and it was a good day to be alive.
As he rounded a bend, a feeling of anticipation grew in his heart and commenced to pounding. Indeed, there was the hole once occupied by Alan’s golden fish. The river’s relentless current had altered it a little, but there was no mistaking this place. It looked more promising than ever. It was a nice, difficult-to-reach spot that big browns seemed to prefer. But a stealthy approach and several casts with different flies gave no indication that the lair was now occupied. Dean studied the water, noting the contours of the hole, where it dropped off, and where it would be best approached from, later.
He outwitted a few other trout in the pools above, and felt hunger calling him back to camp. Taking a shortcut across the big meadow, he spotted a large stag watching him from across the clearing. The deer stood tall and proud, and held aloft a huge rack. He sniffed the air, staring intently at Dean. Then he bounded into the brush and was gone.
Alan had showed him an efficient way to cook trout on the open fire. After dressing the fish and filling the body cavity with his special spices, he laid it right on the hot coals. When the eye turned white, one simply flipped it over with sticks for another few minutes or so - delicious, and no pans to clean. He thanked Nature for this bounty and enjoyed his well-earned meal. How could life get any better than this? With the adrenaline of fishing wearing off, a nap seemed convenient, and he returned to the comfort of the tent.
A light breeze had kicked up and the shadows were making their way across the land when he awoke with a start to a squawking jay. Gathering himself and his gear, he hurriedly crossed the meadow, keeping an eye out for large stag. Dean eased into the chilly water well downstream of the Gladstone Pool - as he now dubbed it.
An Isonychia hatch was coming off, and Dean reached into his library of flies for a Dun Variant. He remembered attending the tying session at The Golden Gate Angling and Casting Club while covering a story in San Francisco last year. The GGACC was one of the oldest fishing clubs in existence. Its lodge pine clubhouse was adorned with cases of elegantly tied flies, black and white photos of past outings, and a few faded trophies. A well-designed set of casting pools made up the courtyard, making it the perfect place for practice and tournaments alike. The members were an astute group of ardent fly casters, and they were graciously inclined toward demonstrating a new twist on a cast, or a story. It was truly a fine place to frequent when not fishing. Perhaps he would move to San Francisco someday. With his writing credit, he could certainly find work. And the mountains, though younger, certainly held a fair share of worthy fish.
Right now though, he had closer things to think about - like the Gladstone Pool. A practice cast with the Variant to a nearby undercut bank drew a savage strike from fat brook trout - one for the GGACC.
The sun was setting and the surroundings began to take on a golden hue as he crawled on hands and knees across a gravel bar towards the beckoning pool. A kind of sharpness had taken over all of his senses. From his knees, he ever so gently floated the offering a few feet from the undercut... a foot closer... a foot closer... 'Gulp!' came the reply.
Instantly the water erupted with a fury as a monster brown trout catapulted out of the water, violently shaking his head and plunging back into the deep pool. It was a hook-jawed male with glorious colours reflecting off its flanks. At almost seven pounds, he was very much like Alan's fish. The rod bowed dangerously downward, throbbing on taught line as the fish roved around in wide circles threatening to pop the fine tippet. The brown then decided on a different angle, and again exploded out of the water, this time doing a tail dance downstream against a screaming reel. Now the fish had the current in his favour as well. This would surely break the line. And then everything went slack.
>Immediately, Dean began stripping in line as fast as he could. Big browns, whether from primordial instinct or experience in past battles, often run straight at you as an escape maneuver. The difference did not matter. Just as the tension started to pick up again, he saw the fish make a lunge for the tree and disappear with a flash of its tail.
>Shaking, Dean stood there for a long time, staring at the place where he last saw the fish, then at his slack line and Grandpa Floyd's rod. He replayed the events of the battle in his mind, wondering how he could have done it differently. Finally he managed a smile, 'That was a good one alright, Alan.' He marched up the banks toward camp in the growing din. The stars were already coming out and it would be another cold night, maybe a frost. It felt good to be alive. This was truly an oasis in the wild, relatively untouched by human hands, hopefully as it would always be.
As he climbed into his down bag for the night, he pulled out his journal to record the day's events. The final entry: 'Heaven smiled on me this day. To these lies I will return, I promise.'
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