Fixer-Upper

It is late morning of a mid-autumn day, and as Brian navigates the winding road down off the ridge and through the broad hollow, there is little color left on the trees, most of the leaves having succumbed to the winds of a recent storm. The grass is still mostly green, and he occasionally glances at the cattle grazing up the hillsides and along the coulees of the creek. The two guardian donkeys loitering at the edge of the main herd make him smile.

He reaches the gravel parking lot, and as he moves to the rear of his aging RX 350 to start gearing up, he notices a new dent in the side of a fender. Grimacing, he mutters, “How the hell did that happen?” Always something new to deal with. He places his folding stool and carpet square on the ground, tucks his pants into his wool hiking socks, and sloughs off his sandals before beginning the increasingly arduous task of shimmying into his waders.

He surveys the handful of other vehicles in the parking lot. There are three or four cars grouped near the restrooms and picnic tables, and he smiles with modest derision as he notes that they are all some variety of Subaru. A woman is cajoling two large golden retrievers out of the back of an olive-green Outback, and they emerge already prepared for their hike with orange and gray Orvis saddlebags strapped around their torsos. He hopes that the woman and her dogs are not headed toward any of the waterside trails; retrievers are the worst for splashing into a nice pool and scattering a pod of feeding trout.

Turning his head to the left, he notes a helter-skelter of pickup trucks parked at that end, and one old Scout with a four-banger River Quiver on top—probably a guide from one of the local shops. There are two men leaning against the bed of the truck closest to him, an extended-cab Ford that seems new and plain compared to the muscled-up models that most of the locals drive. The two men are chatting, the older clean-shaven fellow occasionally nodding his head, as if validating what his much-younger bearded companion is saying. Brian is close enough that he catches some of their conversation over the wavering breeze, and the older fellow appears to be offering advice. Brian hears him ask something about goals, and after the latter responds, he says, “There are definitely a few courses I would specifically recommend.” He figures them to be a professor and a student from the local university.

He finally gets situated, straps on his wading belt, and struggles into his vest. As he does, the wooden net swings around and clobbers him on the jaw, and he feels the two men turn to look at him in response to his sharp expletive. Shit. He sighs—he sighs often—and slides out his rod. He locks up and begins striding across the meadow toward the river. The woman with the retrievers is taking one of the trails heading upstream; he may still encounter her and her rambunctious canines later, but for now, maybe he’ll be alone.

He intersects the river where it flows below 20-foot-high cliffs, a stretch of rocky beach on the far side bordered by thick hardwood forest. There are some good pools here and a couple of long, deep runs where larger fish like to hunker down. When he looks down, he sees that the stretch is already occupied by a couple of fishermen. They are perhaps college age and standing side by side. Both are wearing newer-looking waders, with sling packs over their shoulders and nets dangling at their sides, something he could never get comfortable with. Didn’t they trip over them or get tangled when they tried to get at the packs? He likes the idea, as it is getting harder for him to get fly boxes and other stuff out of his vest without his fingers and wrists aching. It just befuddles him how it is all supposed to work.

He pauses just a few minutes to watch. The fellow casting has decent mechanics, but with the hesitancy of a novice. After a few false casts, the flies drop on the water close enough to be pulled into the seam. It’s a good drift, and when the indicator dips, the man yelps with excitement as he sets the hook. It is obvious from its acrobatics that it is a rainbow, and though he perhaps horses it a bit too much, the angler does a good job bringing it close enough so his buddy can extend the net and let the trout slide in.

Just then, Brian catches movement below him. He looks down to see a boy—well, a young man—balanced precariously on the large boulders at water’s edge. Despite the season, he is clad in a short-sleeved red T-shirt and baggy cargo shorts, wet-wading in a pair of faded high-top Converse All-Stars. At first Brian jumps to the conclusion that he must be a spin fisherman, perhaps even illegally bait fishing. His ire rises, as much because of the guy’s blatant etiquette breach of casting where the others are already fishing. But then the fellow calls something across the water to the other two fishermen. They seem to know each other.

Brian shrugs his shoulders and snorts a little to clear his nostrils in the chilly air, then turns to continue downstream. He picks up his pace and takes a short, steep trail down to the water, grabbing at saplings along the way to slow his descent. There is a sandy beach here, but he makes sure to continue several steps out into the water to establish his beat before other anglers happen by. Most locals are courteous and know the rules of the river. But this place sees a lot of tourists.

He can see the remnants of the collapsed cabin through the thick stands of azaleas, rhododendrons, and mixed hardwoods on the other side. As always, it is a bittersweet, evocative sight. Long ago, fishing with his son, he had labeled it “Sean’s fixer-upper,” joking with the boy, “That’s your future, son.” The name stuck, though now there was not a lot left to fix up. Friends knew exactly where he meant when he said, “Yeah, I pulled two nice browns and a feisty brookie out just below Sean’s fixer-upper.” Though he doesn’t mention it much anymore.

There is a small, orange survey flag just barely visible across the water, and he uses it to triangulate the exact spot where he likes to begin fishing. The bush where the flag hangs is a flame azalea, highly toxic, and in the spring the magnificent blooms make his marker almost impossible to find. But now he is confident he is in position and begins casting, high-sticking as his wool indicator follows the foam line. Before leaving home, he had tied on a heavily weighted black stonefly with a Holy Grail trailing. It has been a couple of weeks now since the river received its November allocation of hatchery trout, enough time that the fish should have gone at least a little bit wild.

He gets into the rhythm of casting, letting the flies tail out at the bottom in hopes of a take on the swing, then using the water to load the line as he flips it back upstream. The weighted black stonefly carries both flies deep, and he sidles a step or two downstream every few minutes. But after several casts, he starts to question his choice of flies. Before he can think about it too much, he hears furious splashing coming from upstream and turns his head to find the source. He curses to himself and mutters just under his breath, “Damned dogs,” expecting to see the two goofy goldies energetically coming toward him. But the dogs are not there. Instead, he sees the fellow in the red T-shirt pushing his way through calf-deep water, flailing his fly rod like a buggy whip. He is a bit flummoxed by the sight, and for some reason his first thought is, Damn, if I tried to do that I would fall and kill myself. At least Red T-Shirt has good balance.

But the anger rises quickly, and he dramatically inhales deeply. He watches Red T-Shirt cross the river to get at some riffles, where he continues whipping the rod, now and then letting the line slap the water and drift for a few seconds. This does not last long before the fellow plows back across the river. At least he exits the water and passes behind Brian on the sand. But he does not go far downstream before calling out, “Mind if I fish here?”

Brian gives him what he hopes is a piercing stare. But Red T-Shirt does not seem to notice. He is still waving his rod wildly overhead in a parody of false casting. “You might want to move a bit farther downstream so that our lines don’t catch each other,” Brian says, surprising himself that it sounds so civil.

He immediately regrets responding at all. Red T-Shirt is a talker. He first states the obvious, that he is new to fly fishing. But, he says, he used to fish a lot with a spinning rig before going into the Army. He is from a military family, though his father was Navy, not Army. His family moved a lot, including a long stint in San Diego, even­tually settling just off the mountain from here. Now, after leaving the service, he is enrolled at the nearby state university. His new-found interest in fly fishing is because of a professor who teaches a special class for veterans—Brian speculates that it must be the fellow with the pickup truck in the parking area. He goes on to say that the class was reading Maclean’s A River Runs Through It in conjunction with their fly fishing (or vice versa?). “It’s about a lot more than fly fishing,” he says, nodding his head vigorously.

Brian is a bit overwhelmed by the burst of information and wants to disengage so he can move downriver. Red T-Shirt’s train of thought switches to what he is going to do with his life, and he asks Brian what he does, and how he got there. Brian tries to deflect the query by saying that he is retired and wishes he had not said that much. When the fellow continues to press him, he recites the old trope, “Life’s a funny old dog,” then realizes that the young vet probably doesn’t have a clue what that means. He is surprised to hear himself give a brief litany of his working life—working in a biology lab, social work, advocacy in D.C.—blah, blah, blah. He is glad when Red T-shirt latches on his work in the lab and doesn’t question him about any of the other stuff, or anything else from his life. He offers him encouragement about how exciting science is, mostly as misdirection.

Brian glances upstream to see the other two fishermen appear around the upstream bend and uses it as an impetus to move. He trudges to the bank, and as he passes the young vet, he asks what flies he is using, as he would any other angler. Red T-Shirt shows him a single squirm worm tied to the end of his tippet, a split shot perhaps 3 feet above it. “Our instructor, Gerry Brown, told us to use these worms and eggs,” he says, and Brian nods, saying that should work. “But why not put both on at the same time?” He proceeds to show the young man how to tie on a dropper. He also gives him a strike indicator. “You might think about taking your time and slowing down your cast,” he adds. “You’re wasting a lot of energy.” He makes a couple of casts to demonstrate, and when he glances over his shoulder as he moves downstream, he sees that Red T-Shirt is methodically repeating slower casts, talking to himself.

Brian puts Red T-Shirt out of his mind as he resumes fishing farther downstream, concentrating on the water, willing fish to strike his flies. But there are no takers, and frustrated, he decides to switch to a red San Juan worm with a pink egg as the dropper. Why not? On his first drift, a 12-inch rainbow slams the egg and tail-dances across the water. He wets his hand and reaches down into his net to remove the fly, sarcastically murmuring to the fish, “You still think you’re in the hatchery, don’t you?” But it always feels good to catch that first fish, no matter the fly.

He lands a few more rainbows and one heavier, stubborn brown trout before it is time to leave. As he scurries up the bank to the path, he warily glances upstream, but it appears there are no anglers left on the water. There are also no cars left in the lot except for his and the olive Outback, where the woman is now trying to cajole her tongue-lolling goldies back into the car. He is relieved and disappointed at the same time. He didn’t really want to encounter Red T-Shirt again, did he?

At home he hangs his waders to dry, puts his vest back into the storage closet, and fits his boots over the boot dryer, turning it to maximum time. As reaches up to slip his rod onto the horizontal rod rack he found on Etsy, he looks down at the dozen or so rod tubes protruding from their own Whac-a-Mole-like holder. Hell, he thinks, I don’t use half of those damned things.

A few days later, Brian finds himself wandering the halls of one of the large buildings that make up the campus of the university. He realizes it is the first time he has been there, other than to the sports stadium. But there is a familiarity; while everything is much more modern, he could easily be heading toward the research lab where he worked so many years ago, buffeted in a stream of young minds heading toward their classrooms.

He finds the room he has been looking for and looks at the plaque to verify the name of the occupant: Gerald Brown, Ph.D. The door is open, and he walks in.

The office is not much different from any he remembers from his days in academia—several bookcases, some orderly, others messy with stacked folders and notebooks. Framed posters interspaced on the empty wall spaces. He recognizes one as a copy of a Russell Chatham lithograph, a gauzy, late-afternoon scene, perhaps somewhere in the Rockies. And of course, there is the large, messy desk, faced by two overstuffed chairs, presumably for student conferences.

The man behind the desk is indeed the fellow he had seen the week before in the parking area at the river. Professor Brown looks up and says in a pleasant voice, “Can I help you?”

Brian hesitates slightly, then says, “I understand you have a class for veterans—fly fishing, literature, something like that?”

“I do.”

“Well, I’ve got some things for you, if you can use them.” He swings the duffel bag off his shoulder and places it on one of the chairs.

The professor looks amused and says, “I’m surprised they let you on campus with that.”

“Oh, I got stopped a couple of times. And I don’t think any of those coeds were eye-balling me for my looks.”

“Let’s see what you got,” the professor says, coming around the desk and unzipping the duffel. He takes out the rod tubes, taking time to read the end tag on each before placing it on the desk. There are six in total.

 “That’s very generous of you,” he says. “Are you a veteran?”

It is the question that Brian knew would be coming and was dreading. He had rehearsed answers many times since he first decided to come here. His eyes drift to the Chatham poster, and he suddenly realizes he knows where it is—the Medicine Bow Range, in southeastern Wyoming. It is a shock. It seems so far away, so long ago, those family trips. Fishing with his son. Another time, another world.

He exhales. “Oh, no, not really.”

The professor pushes, gently, but still too much. “Know someone else that is?” His reply comes too quickly, and sounds so awkward. “Yes, I do. Did.”

He pivots to leave, and the professor calls after him, “Well, thanks for the rods. I’ll put them to good use.” And then adds, “You know, Everest was really impressed by you.”

Brian stops and turns back toward the professor. His mind strains to recall someone named Everest, but nothing registers. “Who?” he asks.

“Everest. One of my students. You talked to him down at the river. About working in a research lab. He thought that was cool, something he would want to do. And he was excited that you helped him with his casting. He caught a fish with that dropper you tied on for him.”

So, Everest is Red T-shirt. Brian realizes that that he is working the inside of his lip with his tongue. “Do me a favor, would you? Give one of those rods to Everest. Maybe that Sage 5-weight. It’ll stand up to his casting.”

The professor smiles and says, “I will most certainly do that.” Brian smiles back and shrugs his shoulders, then pivots back toward the door and strides down the now-empty hall. Everybody must be in class, he thinks. This might be a good time to go down to the river, maybe fish at Sean’s fixer-upper.