“Let’s wade. We’ll be wet anyway, with this rain,” Ethan replies with a grin.
“The gear’s there.” I point to one of the cupboards. “I’m going to get changed. You can wear what you like from whatever’s in there.”
“Cool.” Ethan opens the cupboard and pulls out a pair of waders.
We load our backpacks and our fishing gear into my pickup and I reverse out of the garage and head down the mountain; even in the rain, the scenery is inspiring. Our first stop is the local angling store, where I purchase our fishing licenses. From there we drive to one of my favorite spots on the Roaring Fork River.
“You fished around here before?” I ask Ethan as we make our way to the bank.
“Here, no. But around the Yakima. My dad’s a big fan.”
“He is?” Now, there’s another reason to like Eamon Kavanagh.
“Yeah. Dad told me you’re working with him,” Ethan says.
“GEH is updating his fiber-optic network.”
“He’s pleased.”
I grin. “I enjoy working with him. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”
Ethan nods. “He says the same about you.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” From my backpack, I remove a box of flies. Inside is an impressive collection. “Carmella’s husband makes these. They’re great for trout.”
“Cool.” He selects one and examines it closely.
“Yeah.” I choose one. “The mayflies are hatching around now.”
“These should do it. Let’s hook some lips. I’ll give you some room,” he says, and we both move over the rock-strewn bank in opposite directions.
My reel is attached, but I quickly assemble the rest of the rod and run the fly-line through the guides and attach my fly to the tippet. I’m ready. A glance at Ethan, who must be twenty-five feet away, tells me he’s ready, too. He makes his first cast. It’s smooth and graceful, and the fly lands in what looks like a sweet spot in the water. He knows what he’s doing.
The Roaring Fork gurgles westward at my feet, flanked by rocks and silver birches. It’s a perfect, peaceful setting. The mere sight of this wilderness is enough to make me exhale. I gaze intently at the water as it rushes past me, and slowly wade into the shallows.
Dad is standing with me in the water.
We’re in waders. He scans the river.
Here, son, you’ve got to learn to read the water like you do a book.
Look for those telltale signs of Mr. Trout.
He could be hiding under rocks in the river.
He could be in the seam.
You see the seam, where the slow water hits the fast water.
And look for the bubbles. He could be feeding there.
He loves to eat mayflies, especially this time of year.
This guy, he holds up a fly. We’ll fool him with this.
Take your fly and fasten to the tippet. Here. Like this. Dad knots the fly.
Now you do it. After a few goes, I do. It’s a good knot because Dad’s shown me how.
Good going, Christian. Remember to cast like you’re flicking paint off a brush. It’s all in your wrist.
The mayfly lands and I let her drift on top of the water like Dad said. I get a bite. A trout.
Good going, Christian!
Together we reel it in.
My dad was a good teacher. I make a couple of casts upstream to the far bank and let the fly drift toward me, and soon I’m lost in concentration. Everything slips from my mind as I set about conquering the river.
A heron lands upstream.
The drizzle eases.
It’s so quiet. In spite of the weather, it’s great out here.
I get a bite.
It’s a trout.
A big one.
Hell yes.
The trout backflips and snaps the line.
Shit. Lost him. And the fly.
Ethan has better luck than me. I suspect he hooks the same fish I lost.
“The one that got away,” I complain.
Ethan grins. “This one had my name on it.”
I check the time; we should go.
“He’s big enough to eat. Can we take him?” Ethan says.
“We shouldn’t.”
He grimaces. “Just this once?”
I smile. “Let’s load up. And head back.”
“Elliot never showed,” Ethan says, as we climb into the truck.
“His business in town must have taken longer than he thought.”
Ethan nods, pensive. “He’s a good guy. I think my sister is pretty stuck on him.”
“I think he’s pretty stuck on her, too. Speaking of sisters, how are things with Mia?” I hope I sound casual.
“Your sister is a real force of nature.” He shakes his head, amused by something. “But we’re still just friends.”
“I think she’d like to be more than friends.”
“Yeah. I think so, too.” He blows out a breath.
We pull into the driveway and I activate the garage door. We both climb out of the truck to start unloading, as the garage door slowly rises to reveal Ana and Kate standing beside Elliot astride one of my KTM dirt bikes. They’re all staring at us. “Garage band?” I ask, as I saunter toward Ana. She’s a little flushed, as if she’s been drinking. She grins as her eyes travel down my body; she’s amused at my attire.
Fishing gear, baby. Or maybe she recognizes the coveralls she sold me at Clayton’s. “Hi,” I say, wondering what the hell they’re all doing in the garage.
“Hi. Nice coveralls,” coos Ana.
“Lots of pockets. Very handy for fishing.” I remember how attractive but awkward she was when I was at the hardware store. Her cheeks grow rosier.
Oh, baby, we’ve come a long way since then.
From the corner of my eye, I see Kate roll her eyes, but I ignore her.
“You’re wet,” Ana breathes.
“It was raining. What are you guys doing in the garage?”
“Ana came to fetch some wood.” Elliot smirks.
Dude!
“I tried to tempt her to take a ride.” He pats the bike.
Fuck. No. In this weather? And enough of the smut talk, bro!
“She said no. That you wouldn’t like it,” Elliot says quickly.