Chase watched me eat the last bite of my cookie and finish the half glass of milk. He waited until I sat the glass down and leaned back into my chair until sliding the bottle of bourbon across the table and unscrewing the top and pouring my glass half full. The white stained sides from the milk disappear and I cringe a little. Bryan says he’ll make a White Russian and pours a healthy serving into his glass of milk. I do not think a White Russian contains bourbon. He drains the glass and I cringe more and he doesn’t cringe at all. We do this until we run out of milk or bourbon and I start thinking about how many days it’s been since I’ve caught a steelhead and look down at the blurry outline of my fingers. I twist and contort my fingers trying to make one and a half. (Day 8)
Cold fingers and my feet are not cold because they are numb. The air sits heavy and damp until it moves and then waves of wet air whip by and my face begins to hurt. The water spills through a corner of the river and settles into a long, slow pool, meandering and flat past the tree line like a greasy highway running to the mountains beyond. It reminds me that I couldn’t be much farther from Alabama. So we ply the water with our numbed alien hands and remember to continue hoping between sessions of watching the pink sunlight creep down the sides of the snowcaps. And then hoping turns into something more tangible and we take some pictures and forget about how cold our hands are. Still not feeling our feet. (Day 2)