man’s chest, sharp and fast, until he was gasping
for breath. Mark could hear him mumbling to
himself. He waited a minute and then stepped up
to his side.
“You ready to hook a few?” Mark sounded
relaxed and nodded his faded baseball cap toward
the water.
The old man didn’t react for a second, then
slowly turned and looked at Mark. His eyes were
heavy and pink around the edges and showed no
emotion.
“Young man, why don’t you go have a cup of
coffee and leave me to my thoughts.” He pushed
his words out from the gut, his voice deep and
almost hard to understand because he didn’t seem
to move his mouth much, and turned back to the
water. So this was the even if he acts like he doesn’t
part. Mark cleared his throat and decided to cut
right to the point; fight fire with fire. He knew
this would be a tough sell. It was showtime.
“Well, Tex, if your thoughts involve catching
a fish, we’d better get started,” he said matter-offact.
The old man glared at him and snorted.
“Right there,” Mark continued, pointing the
rod through the Cottonwood trees toward a
downstream bend. “First cast, I’d bet.”
“And how do you suppose I’m gonna get over
there?” The old man asked with a sharp tone in
his voice and patted his thigh. “Huh? Tell me
that, young man. And by the way, m’ name’s
Walt.”
“Okay, Walt.” Mark smiled. “Well my name
is Mark,” he slapped his back over his shoulder,
“and we go piggy back!” The old man looked at
Mark like the guide might have suggested robbing
a bank.
“We’re the only people on the river today so it’s
okay.” Mark said in low voice as he cupped a hand
around his mouth, waggling his eyebrows like
he’d just revealed a secret. “No one will see.”
The old man looked off into the trees for a min ute. “You’re crazy,” he huffed.
Mark clapped once loudly and pointed at the
old man. “Give that man a SEE-GAR! Now
let’s catch some fish!” Mark squatted down like a
Sumo wrestler and slapped his back again. When
Walt didn’t move, Mark waved him over, nodding.
Walt looked around with a B-movie head
swivel. Mark squat-walked over to the old man
and pointed at his back. Walt seemed to recoil;
“What the hell…”
Mark put a finger to his lips as if to say Hush
and pointed to his back again, then looked
off into the trees and posed dramatically like
a linebacker ready to pounce. After looking
around one more time, Walt slowly leaned onto
his guide’s muscular back and wrapped one arm
around his neck.
Mark threaded his arms under the old man’s
skinny thighs and stood quickly, setting off at a
fast clip on a well-worn trail, talking about aquatic insects in the river that were active at that time
of year. The old man’s free hand held his hat in
place, and if you were to look closely, the corners
of his mouth seemed to give a little.
After weaving through the Cottonwoods and
crossing a shallow riffle, Mark walked out onto a
narrow, pointy gravel bar that sliced into a bend
of the river. The water was black with depth
where it swung through the outside of the oxbow,
a thin line of foamy white bubbles floating along
the undercut bank. Mark set his passenger down
started tying on a fly.
Walt whistled softly. “This is good water, yessir,” he said to no one in particular and took off
his hat, running a hand over his gray stubble.
The Cottonwood trees buffered the wind, and
it was a still, silent place, but the damp chill told
Mark snow was not far off. The old man coughed
again, his body heaving until he put his hands on
his knees for balance. Mark looked up for just a
moment, and then returned to tying on the fly. A
watery slurp marked where a trout took a barely
submerged terrestrial, causing rings to form briefly at the tail of the pool.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Mark said as he
twirled the monofilament into a sturdy knot.
“Do you think those bugs can see the fish coming?” The old man spoke.
“Hard to say,” Mark said without looking up.
“Think it helps to know?” Walt asked, still staring at the water.
“Know what?”
“That your time has come.” The statement was
spoken as cold and heavy as the smooth stones at
the bottom of the river.
Being a fishing guide is a bit like being a bartender, in that conversation, advice, and humor
are expected as part of the package. Mark usually
had a great sense of timing with all of them, but