The Fisher
By John Linton
The Fisher
He was still young in his own mind. Some thought of him as old, that his best days had already passed. He was 32.
He awoke early on the June day. The room illuminated by a warm orange light as the rising sun penetrated the glass of his windows. The man perched himself up on one elbow as he still lay in his bed. His eyes looked out the window to the East and saw the sun rising over the green mountain that appeared dark, silhouetted by the rising orange sphere. His head throbbed, and he reached beside him for an absent glass of water on the table. He groaned and fell back into his pillow.
“Too much whiskey last night.” He thought to himself.
He lay there for five more minutes building up the motivation to retrieve that glass of water. The man figured he should do it soon to help the headache subside. The walls of the room were painted an off-white and the ceiling was exposed wood. One picture hung on the walls of the bedroom. It was a reproduction of a Van Gogh painting of fishing boats on a beach. Pulling the covers back, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed. The wood floors were cold on his bare feet. He stumbled his way toward the compact kitchen. It was only ten paces from his bed to the kitchen sink in the small one bedroom cabin. As he took his first gulp of water to quench his parched mouth he looked out the window. Rubbing the stubble on his face, he thought what the day would bring.
“Looks like it'll be a beauty.” He thought to himself. “Sun risin' and not a cloud in the sky. Suppose I should get the fishin' gear ready.”
He returned to his bedroom; his gait a little steadier now. He pulled on his thick khaki pants that he had worn the previous two days and buttoned up a dark green button-down shirt. The man regarded himself in the mirror and tried to tame his thick brown hair with his hands. His head still throbbed from the drinking last night, but he knew some fresh mountain air would fix that in a matter of minutes.
He collected his fishing gear; the box of tackle, his waders, and his fly rod and reel. He closed the door to his cabin and threw all of the gear into the back of his decaying 1992 Toyota pickup truck. Dew covered the truck in the cool morning. To the passing observer, the truck looked doubtful that it would run with any consistency, but it had never let him down. He went back into the cabin and made a sandwich for lunch and filled a bottle of water. The fisherman got a cooler and filled it with ice; he was planning to bring a fish home tonight.
The truck reluctantly rumbled to a start. He depressed the clutch and shifted the vehicle into reverse. It was 7:28 AM, and he was off to go fishing.
He drove down the washboard infested dirt road that ran from his cabin toward the town. The cabin was 15 miles up the dirt road from the little town of Empire in the Colorado mountains. He made a right turn four miles from his cabin onto a rough road. Lining the road and densely covering the mountain slopes were Ponderosa Pine and Douglas-fir trees. The trees combined with the surrounding mountains left the road in shadows in the early morning. Occasionally, the road would be blessed with an uninterrupted ray of sunlight. He drove with the windows down, and the cool morning air awoke him as he drove. He took in deep breaths of the fresh mountain air. It had rained last night. If you have smelled a pine forest after a rain, you know it is the freshest scent on this Earth. There was a creek that ran next to the little road. It was a small creek, only a foot or two across, though it often overflowed during a rain storm. The creek would wind close to the road and then would retreat back into the shelter of the trees and would appear again as it meandered its way down the slope.
The road evolved from a rough dirt road to a trail populated by large rocks and protruding tree roots. The road at this point forward was only passable by four-wheel drive vehicles with substantial ground clearance. His truck had the mandatory characteristics to pass on this road, and he had done it many times before. He rumbled along the road, slowly ascending as the truck climbed up the incline towards the top of the ridge.
When he reached the top of the ridge, he pulled the truck over to the side of the trail and engaged the parking brake. He stepped out of the vehicle and stood in the middle of the trail, taking in the view as he did every time he traveled this trail. He looked back down the valley he had come up. Pine trees lined the sides of the mountains. At the end of the valley he could make out a few buildings from the town, miles away.
As he walked back to the truck he saw his reflection in the driver side window. The man was a naturally handsome man. He had dark brown hair and brown stubble grew on his face. He had blue eyes and skin that had been tanned from much time outdoors under the sun's rays.
He got back in the truck, shifted it into first gear, and continued along the off-road trail. He was descending now, down the other side of the ridge. Trees still occupied both sides of the trail, but more light penetrated through the foliage as the sun was higher in the sky. He stayed on the trail ten more minutes until it opened into a broad meadow. The meadow was a dark, lush, green in the morning light. A stream cut through the middle of the meadow. The stream was 18 feet wide at its widest and never deeper than three feet. Grass that would come up past his knees filled the remainder of the meadow. The grass danced and swayed in the light breeze. He parked his truck at the edge of the clearing, under the shade of the last trees before they gave way to the grass. He turned off the engine, closed his eyes, and listened for a moment. He heard the cool rushing of the stream, the sound of the light breeze rustling the pine-needles and grass, and the song of a half-dozen birds.
He grabbed his fishing equipment from the back of the pick-up truck. He took his shoes off and put the waders on over his khaki pants. From where he stood at the edge of the clearing, the stream flowed from his right to his left. As he looked down the meadow to his right he could see the treeless, barren, snow covered mountains that rose 20 miles off in the distance. The peaks of the mountains were 14,000 feet above sea level. He figured the meadow was at about 10,000 feet in elevation. A cool breeze descended from the high peaks. With his rod in hand he walked off toward the stream. Once at the stream's edge, he slowly walked into the stream and stopped about six feet from the shore. The water came up to his mid-calf. This was his favorite part of the day. As the fisherman stepped into the water, he could feel the cool refreshing water rush along his legs. The water was ice cold as it had existed as snow and ice only a few hours before. “Only in a high mountain stream;” he thought to himself.
He made some casts downstream from where he stood. The familiar flex of the fly rod in his hand as he cast brought a slight smile to his face. He loved this spot to fish. Few other people knew of it; generally it was unoccupied as it was today.
He hooked his first fish as the sun was ascending high over the mountains. He figured it was about 10:30 AM. It was a small cutthroat trout. He examined the fish and figured it was too small. He removed the hook and let the fish swim away in the cold water. Today he was looking for a fish to bring home for dinner.
As the sun rose higher in the sky it began to get hotter. He knew the fish didn't bite much in the heat of the day. Reeling in his line, he made his way to the bank of the stream. He walked back to his truck and set his rod in the back and removed his waders. The man gathered the sandwich, that he had made that morning, and the bottle of water from the truck. He found a spot in the shade of the trees to sit. After a minute, he began to get up to get a beer from the six that sat in the cab of his truck but decided he didn't need it. The water was good.
He stood up and retrieved a jacket from the cab of his truck. He found a spot to lay down in the shade of the trees; the ground was covered with pine-straw and grass. He rolled up his jacket as a pillow and lay on his back. He looked up. His view of the clear blue sky and the few meandering clouds was partially obstructed by the branches filled with pine-needles. He closed his eyes and could heard the stream in the distance. He fell asleep with thoughts of his fly rod flexing in his hand as he cast and dreamed of the fish in the stream.
He awoke as a cool breeze rustled the trees around him. The sun was setting in the West, and he figured it must be 4 or 5 PM. He never carried a watch or cell phone when he went fishing. It had cooled enough that the fish were likely biting again. He put his waders back on and got his fly rod. He waded into the stream and cast downstream 20 feet from where he stood.
After 10 minutes his line jerked with the bite of a fish. He knew at once that it was a big fish from the pull on the line. He reeled the fish in and pulled a 12 inch cutthroat trout out of the water. He removed the hook and admired the beautiful fish. It had the characteristic red under the mouth and black spots toward the rear of its body. It filled both of his hands as he held it. He walked over to the truck and placed the fish in the cooler with ice. Most of the ice had melted but some ice still remained and the water inside was cold.
He walked back to the stream and waded in. He would try for one more fish before the day was done. The fisherman made three casts. The sun was getting low on the Western horizon and the mountain air cooled as it does at high altitudes when the sun begins its decent. I guess I should be heading home, he thought to himself. He reeled in his line. He walked to his truck, removed his waders, and placed his rod in the truck bed.
With the pleasure attained from a successful day fishing, he inserted his key into the ignition and brought the engine to a start. The engine sounded rough as metal moved upon unlubricated metal. He looked at the dash to see the low oil light illuminated. He turned the truck off. Opening the hood, he checked the dipstick to find no oil on it. He looked under the car and saw where oil had leaked out of the vehicle.
He looked to the setting sun.
“Probably only an hour of daylight left.” He thought. “It would take at least four hours to walk to town. I guess I spend the night here and walk tomorrow.”
With his mind made up he began working quickly to take advantage of the remaining daylight. He walked through the forest collecting wood off of the ground to burn in a fire. He returned to his truck with an armful of wood. The fisherman selected a spot not far from his truck and in the shelter of the trees to set up his fire. He collected rocks to construct a circular fire pit.
With the fire pit completed, he placed some small twigs in the pit with a collection of dry pine-needles to use as tinder. Luckily he always carried a lighter in his truck. He ignited the pine-needles and shortly the small twigs caught fire as well. With the twigs burning, he placed a small piece of wood into the fire. Soon the man had a full fire as the sun descended below the Western horizon and now only a faint orange glow could be seen to the West as the first stars began to appear. The moon rose and provided generous and appreciated illumination.
He removed his fish from the cooler. Laying the fish on the lid of the cooler, he took his pocket knife out and cut the fish open along its belly from its head to its tail. He took the guts and organs out of the fish and threw them in the fire which burned hot now. He next cut the fish's head off and threw it in the fire as well. The man spread the fish open as a fillet and placed it upon a thin two pronged stick he had collected earlier. With the stick, he suspended the fish above the fire just so the top of the orange flames danced along the bottom of the piece of meat. After he heard the meat begin to sizzle, he brought the stick from the fire, rotated the fish, and returned it to the flames.
With the fish adequately cooked, he removed it from the fire and allowed it to cool for a minute. He blew on the fish and then picked it up with his hands. It was hot and hurt his hands, but he was hungry. He pulled the pieces of meat from the skin and ate them with his hands. The meat was tender and flaked easily away from the skin. It only took him two minutes to consume all of the meat. He threw the skin into the fire and watched it shrivel up as it burned.
“Well, I guess I should wash that fish down with some whiskey;” he thought to himself.
He grabbed his ever-present flask of whiskey from his pant pocket. As he reached to unscrew the lid he heard the fire pop and then crackle. He paused for a moment and could hear the rushing of the stream 30 yards away in the meadow. He took his hand off of the lid of the flask and returned it to his pocket without taking a sip.
“I don't need any whiskey now.” He said aloud to himself. “Not now.”
As the time passed and the night grew later, he decided not to add any additional logs to the fire so it would begin to burn out. As the flames began to dwindle from the lack of new fuel, he began to get tired. With the flames almost extinguished, he walked to the stream with his cooler. He filled the cooler with the cold stream water and walked back to the campsite and poured it over the fire. The fire hissed as the water whetted the coals and steam arose.
With the fire firmly extinguished, he opened the passenger door to his pickup truck. He closed the door and curled up in the passenger seat. The man covered himself with his jacket. The flask of whiskey pushed against his hip as he settled into the truck. He thought about taking a pull of whiskey to help him sleep, but then he heard the sound of the stream. He closed his eyes and listened to the stream as he fell asleep; the hint of a smile upon his face.
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The next morning he awoke with the rising of the sun. He had slept through the night. The fisherman opened the car door and was immersed in the cool morning air. The freshness of the mountains greeted him, and he took a deep breath. The man was tempted to go out on the water for a few casts; he knew this was a great time to fish and that they would be biting. With the long walk ahead of him, he knew he couldn't.
He thought what he needed for the walk. Water was most essential, but he had drank all of the water he had brought in the bottle. He walked over to the stream and filled the bottle with the fast rushing cool water. He knew he could potentially get sick from drinking it but it was a cold, fast moving stream. Getting sick from water was better than no water at all.
With is pocket knife in his right pocket and his wallet in his left he threw his jacket over his shoulder. He held the water bottle in his left hand. It should be a nice day for walking he thought as he examined the clear sky. He paused as he looked at the meadow, the creek, and then the snow capped mountains. He turned from where he stood by his truck and began to walk down the trail that had carried him here.
A bird watched from a log next to the stream. The young man walked slowly down the trail and disappeared into the shadows of the tall evergreen trees, a flask of whiskey in the back right pocket of his pants.
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