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Tip o' the Day

She was in a long time--clear to her armpits in the frigid water of a high mountain lake. She'd waded out earlier, farther and farther from the brush-lined shore until she had sufficient room to work her flyrod.

Her first cast landed (a bad choice of words since terra firma lay 50 feet behind) a fat 10-inch rainbow, which she released. She whipped her line again, just head and arms thrusting above the lake surface. Another strike! Another whoop of delight!

I grinned and sat upon a buckskin log to watch my beginning fisherperson-wife engage in the first great fly fishing she'd experienced. My eyes wandered. Our teenage son stood to his knees a quarter of the way around the lake. By the looks of it he was having trouble with his backcasts, snagging brush. Apparently the boy lacked enough savoir-faire to emulate his mother and wade out to his neck.

I leaned down to stick my finger into the icy water, then shook my head. Jane hooked another trout. And another. and another. I yawned and ambled along the lakeshore to watch Marc. "Why don't you wade on out like your mother?" I asked when he snagged another spruce limb.

He peered at me as if I had a toad hanging from an ear. "Why don't you come on out and show he how?"

I smiled and ambled on, heading for the lake's far end. My passion is more for exploring new country than for catching fish. I climbed a low ridge, then sprawled, propping elbows in order to glass the surrounding country.

An ant tickled my nose. I wondered how long I'd slept. Marc was gone; so was Jane. No! There! Sunbeams glistened from a thousand flashing water drops as Jane whipped her flyline as I raised my binoculars.

She hadn't moved from her place. Even as I watched, the rod tip darted to the lake surface, then began jitterbugging.

"You're going to be as shriveled as a 1952 prune," I called after working my way back around the lake.

"I don't care. I'm catching fish!" "You sure as heck are," I said. "You're also catching cold, chillblains, and the hoof part of hoof and mouth disease. Besides, your arms, hands, and face are beginning to light up like a stoplight."

Her line fell into the water as she paused for the first time to look at her sunburning arms. The waterlogged line sank immediately.

However, as plump rainbow brought it back to the surface with the speed of a submarine's missile launch!

Valediction For Reveng -- A Western Series by Roland Cheek: Six novels cataloging the life of Jethro Spring, progeny of a mountain man father and Blackfeet mother. A series of tales of desperate struggles to play the cards fate dealt amid a history of change; from beaver days and "westering" wagons; through the era of vast cattle ranches to corporate boardrooms where schemes are laid to plunder for profit

NO MERCIFUL GOD ON THAT DAY

"You koow," I said through gritted teeth, "if you'll stop this thing, I'll get out and walk."

The pilot laughed and wiggled the half-moon wheel in his hand. Outside the passenger-side window, the aircrafts all-too-flexible wing waved in response as evergreen limbs beckoned just beyond its tip. I swallowed and blinked several times, trying to conjure images of Salome's Dance of the Seven Veils, of bicyclers in the Tour de France, of elephants lubering across the Kalahari. Nothing worked--the evergreens boughs insisted on deomstrating their proximity.

"There's a band of elk," my companion murmured, putting the little Cessna in a tight bank to neatly bring the mountainside meadow into my view. Then he slowed until until it almost seemed as if I could get out and walk.

I counted through fingers of one hand, while the other hand pressed my nearly regurgitating tummy. "Sixteen." I had to repeat the number because I couldn't barely hear the tiny squeak myself. "All cows and calves." We were low enough and close enough to see spots on the babies. None of the elk seemed alarmed by the coasting airplane. I wanted badly to be one of them.

"How many calves?" my friend asked.

"Four."

He nodded. "It's time for cows to begin dropping calves. This is the kind of place they usually choose to do it--good food and water close to hand, lots of good security cover."

My friend was a biologist with Montana's Fish, Wildlife and Parks. He'd logged hundreds of hours winging over sky-scratching mountaintops and buzzing forested canyons in search of electronic beeps from radio transmitters worn by the animals he studied--the wide-ranging, mean-tempered wolverine. I'd asked Howard to give a presentation on his six-year wolverine study at a "reunion" of folks I'd formerly led to northern Rockies adventure. Howard flew into the remote Spotted Bear airstrip, near the lodge where our guests were gathered. He was early. With spare time on his hands, he asked if I'd care to join him for a ride. Probably, Howard didn't know I don't fly well, but most of my other friends knew. Or maybe Howard didn't care. The reason I don't fly well is because I'm always surprised when I get back.

The pilot stood the Cessna on its wing to again cruise past the band of elk, this time on his side. "They appear to be in good shape. Probably other cows are in the trees calving, or getting ready to do so."

Elk? Who cared about elk? I asked if he had a "barf" bag?

He glanced at me and chuckled as my pea-green image was reflected from his mirror sunglasses. "You do look a little pale."

I placed both hands against the bottom of my sternum, pushing down and in. "Well, do you?"

"No. You'll have hold it."

Every muscle in my body was fully engaged in my battle to "hold it," even my eyelids. But they fluttered open when I felt the plane bank into a narrow side canyon. Mountains towered above us, either side. I knew this country well--one of my hunting camps was located nearby. "This is a box canyon, Howard."

"Mmm."

"Howard, this canyon narrows down at the upper end!"

"That so?"

"Howard, what I'm trying to tell you is that you maybe aren't doing such a good thing."

"Really?"

"Dammit, Howard, what I'm really saying is you may not have room to turn."

At eighty-miles-per-hour, the canyon's headwall galloped toward us at astonishing speed! Meanwhile mountainsides squeezed in. It occurred to me that my wife and all our friends who'd arrived from Florida and Pennsylvania and California might be disappointed if Howard stuck the prop nose-first into a late-blooming patch of dogtooth violets. I glanced at my suicide-driven companion, but couldn't see past the morrors on his sunglasses. The man's mouth corners twitched a little, however, before terror again took over and I stared wide-eyed through the plexiglass at the mountain onslaught approaching at breakneck speed.

My friend merrily shouted, "Hang on!"

"God help me hold it!" I muttered, closing my eyes.

God wasn't there to help--he'd jumped out some minutes before.

 

 

 

Roland Cheek wrote a syndicated outdoors column (Wild Trails and Tall Tales) for 21 years. The column was carried in 17 daily and weekly newspapers in two states. In addition, he scripted and broadcast a daily radio show (Trails to Outdoor Adventure) that aired on 75 stations from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific Ocean. He's also written upwards of 200 magazine articles and 12 fiction and nonfiction books. For more on Roland, visit:

www.rolandcheek.com

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