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John reached into his creel, searching for his box of flies. It was an old metal box, silver and square like a flask, with a hinge in front. A box familiar to him from twenty years of use, and yet his fingers couldn't find it. Everything in the creel felt odd and he had to open it up, bring it close to his face before he could find his flies. It was a funny feeling, having an audience while he fished. Even if that audience was only his wife. It was like someone catching him in the shower, or spying on him as he drove his car. The last time John had gone fishing with someone else was eight years ago. He and Dad had gone up the Animas River, out in New Mexico. One year before his dad had died, two years before he'd married Maggie. Now he was out at Goose Creek, middle of the Lost Creek Wilderness in Colorado, baffled by Maggie's nearness. John didn't know why she'd come, and Maggie wasn't saying. Wasn't speaking.
Maybe she was feeling it, too. That the occasion was too important, too new and strange for chitchat, for polite talk about work or movies or the dog. So they stood in separate silences, each in the shade of a pine tree, conscious of the white noise around them: the creek, John's fumbling with his gear, and the small scratch of the zipper on Maggie's jacket. Sounds John sought to muffle.
"Nymphs are good this time of year," he said, pulling out flies to show Maggie. "Mosquitoes, too. Those are the furry gray ones. I always have good luck with those."
He picked one out, licked the end of his fishing line and threaded it through the hole on top of the fly. He'd lost lots of flies when he was just learning to fish; now he knew to secure the fly with three or four knots, pull each one tight. He cut off the extra line with his teeth, spat it out beside him on the rocks. He looked over at his wife. Maggie was trying, he knew, to look the part. She had pulled her hair back in a ponytail, had dressed in jeans and boots, but her face was done up in mascara and blush, lipstick and eyeliner. She was snapping off the heads of columbine flowers, had tucked one behind her ear. John took some FlyDry from his creel and continued to chatter.
"This stuff protects the fly, keeps the water off," he said, spraying the fly and the line. The FlyDry misted up around him, smelled like women's hairspray.
"Now the fly will float on the water," he continued. "A fly that sinks will scare away the fish. That's the key with these brookie trout: you can't let them know you're there. Can't let them see your shadow on the water, can't let them hear you talking, if you can help it."
"Right," Maggie said, "don't bother the fish."
"Just kind of hover nearby. Let them feel safe, snug, alone. Until the last minute," John said. He hung his creel across his chest, took his pole in hand, and stood up.
"Wait right here and I'll pick out a good hole, show you what I mean."
"I'll be here," Maggie answered.
John left her in the cover of the pines and walked cautiously towards the creek. The creek ran through a mid-mountain ravine; they'd hiked downhill on a grassy footpath for more than an hour to reach it. That and the fact that it was only mid-May meant John would probably be the only one out fishing today. At the edge of the bank, out of Maggie's sight, he took off his sunglasses and studied the water. John never got bored staring into the water, tricking his eyes into looking past the surface, past the hint of his reflection, and down through the water. He stared into the deep parts of the creek where he could see a bed of brown stones and logs directing the water's flow. Part of him wanted badly to reach down into the water, feel the shocking cold of it. But he didn't want to scare the fish, didn't want to invade the water. Sometimes when he was out, he'd see someone hiking with a dog. Usually a big dog, with a bandanna around its neck. Of course the dog would run through the creek, scattering fish, frustrating John. But John often found himself wishing that he could run like that too. Water rushing past his limbs, fish and reeds brushing his ankles.
The water today was heavy with the reflection of pine trees. Maggie found pine trees common and favored the patches of aspen trees tucked in between the pines or lined up at the edges of the road, where the pines had been cleared. But John liked pine trees—red pine, white pine, jack pine, even slash pine. He especially liked the smell of pine, liked a strong wind to blow it into his face. But trees close to the water made fly-fishing trickier. An overdone cast would get his fly snagged in the branches behind him. He'd have to remember to mention it to Maggie. He walked a few yards up the creek and picked out what looked like a good hole. Clear water, deeper and calmer than the rills in the middle of the creek, with rocks around the edges that John knew fish liked to rest under. It was a good place to start; he remembered the spot from last year. He went back to collect Maggie. She was sitting on a rock, rubbing sun block onto her face and the backs of her hands.
"There's a good fishing pool ahead," he said to her. "It's not far."
Maggie titled her head a bit, but kept her eyes on her task.
"I'll come over in a minute," she said.
John sat and watched as Maggie poured out some more lotion, surprising John when she began to rub it into the back of his neck. It seemed like an intimate thing to do, and he wasn't sure what it meant. He felt bold for a minute, considered asking her what was on her mind, why she'd come along today. But a conversation like that would surely invite trouble and it seemed foolish to disturb the trip before getting in any fishing. He stood up, waited for Maggie to get arranged, and then led her up the creek.
"See how this boulder comes out into the water? It's a perfect spot to fish from if you crouch down on it." John edged out on the rock, took hold of his pole, and gave it a few lateral whips to let out some line, get the fly in motion. When he gauged that the line was dry and lithe, he let the end fly out over the creek, let his mosquito drop onto the water's surface. The fly drifted, caught the sun, seemed like a bit of light on the water. John kept his eye on the fly, ready to pull it out if it started to sink, if it headed towards the jutting sticks. Everything was perfect; the fly drifted over the hole he'd been aiming for, but there was no bite. John lifted the fly out of the water, whipped the line in sharp "S" figures above his head to dry it off, and made another cast. Four or five times he tried casting from that spot, but either the fish were asleep or he'd picked and empty hole.
"No luck," he said. "Guess we'll have to try another spot."
"You looked good," Maggie said. She sounded like she meant it, and John wished that he'd caught a fish on his first cast.
"Let's move on," John called out. "This creek's lined with great holes."
Four or five holes later, John began to get worried. He'd had no luck at all, yet. It was the first time this part of the creek had let him down. Of course it hadn't helped that he'd been explaining everything to Maggie. He couldn't seem to stop himself. Why to use a particular fly, why to hold the extra line in your free hand, what to do if your fly got caught on a log in the middle of a creek. He knew he'd made too much noise. He didn't exactly know if fish had ears, but he was pretty sure they had something that let them hear. Although how they could hear anything beyond the constant rushing of the water amazed him. It must be terribly loud below the surface of the creek, even if it was quiet on top. He always felt deaf when he went under water. He couldn't imagine living in it. The pressure of water all along his body.
John needed to catch something, to banish the dread that was building up as he went from one empty hole to another, Maggie trailing him, getting the wrong impression of everything. He and Maggie had never been up in the mountains together until today. There had been trips to Kansas to visit his family and Indiana to visit hers. But they'd never headed off into the wilderness together, never gone fishing together. Fishing wasn't something Maggie did. She did book clubs, community theater, and Junior League. John fished. As often as possible, April through October. His range was wide, and he patrolled it diligently, marking each stream and creek he'd visited in blue highlighter on a map. On a good day, he'd come home hot and flushed with mud on his boots and a creel full of headless trout. Home to Maggie.
"How was it?" she'd ask him.
"Fine," he'd say. "Caught three keepers today." Or maybe, "that was a real storm out there today." And once, last fall, "Saw a falcon today."
John had wanted, just that one time, for Maggie to fold up her book and ask him what it had been like to see a falcon up close, trying to take his fish. But she hadn't asked, and John had stood in the air-conditioning, shivering as his T-shirt cooled. He was sweaty, he'd suddenly remembered, smelly and gritty, too, so he headed for the shower, taking the image of the falcon with him. It was the last time he'd tried to interest Maggie in fishing.
It worried John that Maggie had had a change or heart, that something other than him had changed her mind, put the idea in her head to go fishing today. Yesterday, he'd taken his pole out of the closet, checked the workings of the reel, and fitted it all together. Then he'd searched through his collection of flies, counting each type, checking each hook for barbs. When they'd gone to bed that night, after he'd turned off the light and lain still for ten minutes or more, Maggie had said, "I guess you're going fishing tomorrow?"
"Planning on it," John said.
"Maybe I'll come with you."
It surprised John, so much so that he thought about turning the light on, looking into Maggie's face, trying to read her intention. But he didn't want to frighten the idea away.
"Any special reason?" he asked.
"No. I just think I should come. Anyway, it will give us a chance to talk."
And something began to pull at John, a tiny hook worrying towards his heart, catching him there in the dark.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"I'm sure. Wake me when you get up."
That was all. No other explanation. Nothing when they woke, either, just the common activities of Maggie's morning routine: shower, nuzzling the dog, coffee. And nothing in the car as they drove to the creek. So that John felt maybe Maggie hadn't come to talk, but was there just to study him. Test him. He wanted badly to succeed, and yet his creel remained empty.
"This part of the water is dead today," John said, returning to the bank and Maggie.
"Still nothing?" she asked.
"Not down here. Let's go a ways further, get around the bend up there."
Around the bend was a whole new vista. They'd been wandering through a narrow corridor, hardly room on either side of the creek to walk, but now the creek was running through a wide lea in the mountain valley.
"It's like the plains," Maggie said, "I feel like I'm in Indiana again. Look, there are even wild irises."
John grunted, letting Maggie have her Midwestern memories. To him it was nothing so pedestrian as Maggie's home state. It was practically prehistoric. The lea was wide and grassy, full of huge boulders. Boulders bigger than cars, John thought, bigger than elephants. Boulders like dinosaurs.
"We'll try again here," he said. But he'd lost Maggie.
"You go ahead," she said. I think I'll stay here, read a book." She was settled in the tall grass, tucked up in the shadow of a boulder. "I've had enough sun for a while."
"Are you sure that's what you want to do?" John asked. "Stay here?"
"It's probably me giving you bad luck, anyway."
John thought about contradicting her, but really it was what he'd been thinking. Although now that she'd said it aloud, he felt guilty and sad, like he'd missed some chance, failed again. Still, she was a grown woman, could make her own choice.
"I won't be too long," he said.
John left Maggie the daypack and strode through the grass to a wider part of the creek, to a spot where he wouldn't be able to see his wife. For more than an hour he fished alone. Deliberate, quiet fishing that he could have enjoyed if he'd caught more than two fish. If he hadn't been interrupted with thinking about Maggie. His rhythm was gone, his timing nervous. He gave up, moving away from the creek and back through the grass to Maggie.
He found Maggie sleeping on her stomach, her head on the daypack, hair loosened. Maggie's hair had been red when he'd met her, but now it was blond, almost white, and looked like a clear spray of water against the grass. He wondered if it would feel like water and wanted to tickle a strand through his fingers. But it wasn't possible. Not without waking her, changing things. Instead, he pulled his hat tight and low on his head and lay down not far from her. John loved to sleep outside, liked to focus on the sun warming his skin, the grass brushing his arms and his neck every time he shifted his weight. And then the sudden stillness when his body went peaceful, settled into the ground.
John let himself daydream, remembering his father when he had been young, not even forty. John was young, too. Ten or twelve. They were hiking beside a waterfall, a creek running down Green Mountain, the water stopping in flat places to form big pools. He couldn't hear his dad, really, could only hear the sound of the water. You could talk as loud as you liked when you were fishing a waterfall without having to worry about scaring the fish. Nothing was louder than the water.
His dad was standing with him on a rock six feet above the water, showing him how to cast long. It would take a lot of line to reach the water, more than he'd worked with before.
"If you can just control that line," his dad said, "the hard part's done. You don't even have to cast. Just let your fly plop right down on top of that water."
John took his stance, swung his pole far from the trees, loosed the fly from his fingers, watched it catch a breeze for a few seconds before it landed soft on the water. The fly blended in with the white bubbles of the fast water; he couldn't even really see it. But he felt the tiny pull on his pole when it came and knew he'd hooked a fish. He hauled it out of the water, watched it swinging in the air as he reeled it in. His dad was smiling.
They moved on, after a while, wanting to reach the top of the falls. The path was full of curves and crossed back and forth over the creek. He was following tightly behind his dad as they made a turn, saw his dad's arm come out to stop him. His dad didn't say a word, just pointed with his finger up ahead. John saw a bear, a big black bear, maybe four feet away, standing halfway in the creek. He took a step towards it, then felt the pressure of his dad's arm stopping him. It didn't even take a minute for the bear to turn around, work her way up the mountain, and disappear from their sight.
"That," his dad said, "is a rare thing to see. In all the times I've been fishing, I've never seen a bear like that. Not working the same patch of water as me."
It was the best day John ever had.
It could be like that with Maggie, John thought. He'd never told Maggie about that day; now he wanted to. Tell her about the creek and the leaves and the sound all rushing but that bear standing so still in the water, and he and Dad frozen, too, part of it all. John rolled over, searching for Maggie in his half-sleep, the way he had when they were first married. He wanted to hold her, have her right there amid the boulders and water. It had been months, an ache of cold months. No Maggie and no fishing, just waiting like an animal for spring. And now they were here and John felt right, strong, flexing inside himself. But his fingers didn't find Maggie, and John stood up to look for her. She was down by the water, looking at his creel staying cool in the creek. He gathered the rest of his gear and went over to her. Maggie had her fingertips in the creek, was making small circles in the water. John saw a moment when he could wrap his arms around her, and then saw it disappear.
"I see you caught two fish," Maggie said, pulling up his creel. "They look small."
John was quick to take the creel from her, quick to strap it back across his chest.
"They're brookie trout," he told her. "Brookies are always small."
The fish were brown and spotted, perfect fish, but small, it was true. Each under ten inches.
"Anyway, the small ones cook up better," he said.
Maggie drew into herself, so that her arms and legs and even her mouth became tight and flat. John knew that he'd blundered and tried to backtrack.
"But you don't have to eat them," he said, "if it makes you feel funny."
"Two flopping, gulping fish. I don't get it," Maggie said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I'm out here, I'm watching you doing your thing, this thing that you love, right? But I don't get why you love it. Staring at the water, hypnotizing yourself at every brown puddle . . ."
"I'm looking for the fish, Maggie. Looking for the fish."
Maggie was still crouching by the water. John could see her studying her reflection, watched her pull a stray piece of grass from her hair.
"Is it ever more than that?" she asked. "When you look at this creek here, don't you wonder about it? Where it comes from, where it goes, out of the mountains and off to the ocean?"
But all John could see in the water now was Maggie. He closed his eyes, felt himself sinking. He was flooded, in over his head, unable to speak for a minute.
"I'm trying, Maggie," he answered at last. "I'm trying hard, but I don't know what you mean. I like the water, like to be near it, like to cast in my line here and there, see what it might be hiding. That's enough for me."
"I know," Maggie said. She stood up and dried her hands off on her jeans. She still had her back to him, but it didn't matter. John had closed his eyes. "I knew before coming," she finished.
Then John knew for certain that he was drowning, that his ears were full of water, for he could barely hear her as she said, "Well, I guess I should give it a try."
"What, fishing?" John asked, forcing himself to pay attention, to get his head above water.
"Yes, fishing. I was watching everything you did. Don't you think I'm ready?"
It was late in the day, and John wanted to hike back to the car before it was dark. But Maggie wanted to fish. For the first time in eight years there would be someone to fish with and John felt himself surfacing an inch or two.
"Sure, you're ready," he said. "Come on, I'll take you back down the creek. Get the pole set up for you."
"I think I'll stay right here, get set-up myself. If you just give me the fishing stuff."
Then something red and hot crept up through John, tightening his shoulders, clenching his hands into tight fists around his pole. He willed it away, willed himself rational. He weighed the chance of beginner's luck against the conditions of the day and the dead water. After a moment, he calmly handed over his gear.
"Why don't you go ahead and pick out a spot for yourself," he said.
He would like to see just what kind of spot Maggie would pick. He watched her pace the creek for a few yards and stop at a wide spot on the bank, a spot clear of trees and bushes.
"There's nothing to hide you from the fish there," he said.
"Well, the sun's fading, so I figure I won't cast much of a shadow out on the water. Haven't you ever fished during sunset?" Maggie asked.
"No," John lied, "It's not a good time for it."
He didn't want to encourage her, didn't want to tell her he remembered fishing at sunset plenty with his dad, when they camped overnight. Pulling in the fish, throwing them in a frying pan minutes later for dinner. He watched Maggie swinging the pole around, trying to dry the line. She hadn't bothered changing the fly. John backed away, leaned against a red pine tree, but made sure he could see everything.
Maggie made her first cast. It wasn't a curving motion and the fly didn't go very far out. She pulled in the line, whipped it in the air, and cast again. The sun was getting lower, lighting up the creek. All the light on the water made John almost dizzy and he was glad he wasn't standing too close to the creek's edge.
"I got one! I got one!" he heard Maggie yelling, swinging the pole towards the bank.
It was unbelievable.
"Are you sure?" John asked, jogging over.
"Don't let him get away," Maggie screamed, handing him the pole.
The fish was flopping along the bank, heading for the water. John pulled the line towards him, grabbed the fish in his hand, and worked it away from the hook. He held it out for Maggie to inspect. The fish was silver with green spots on its side, bright red gills pulsing hard at its neck. Maggie's face as she watched it was a new face, excited in a way that John had never seen.
"What is it?" Maggie asked. "It doesn't look like the ones you caught."
"It's a cutthroat trout." John said.
"It's beautiful," said Maggie.
"Do you want to keep him?" John asked.
Maggie nodded her head; John added the fish to his creel. He kept the fish in a Ziploc bag with some grass and a few inches of creek water. The two fish he'd caught didn't move when he added Maggie's fish. He could see one opening its mouth a bit, trying to breathe, but it was probably unconscious by now. It was a slow suffocation.
"I'm going to try again," Maggie said.
'"Better get a new fly," John said. "Better move somewhere else, too. The fish here are probably spooked."
But Maggie wasn't listening, had taken up her same post. She whipped the fly around in the air, threw it into the water again. John stood back, watching her until a second fish came flying out of the water. He took the fish from Maggie, another cutthroat trout, and added it to the bag. They both watched it trying to flip itself over, trying to sink below the other fish, cover itself in as much water as possible.
"This is plenty," John said. "We don't need more than this."
"Then I'll just let the rest go," Maggie said. "I feel a little bit sorry for them, anyway."
It surprised John that Maggie would feel bad for a fish, that she could imagine what it would be like to be dragged from the cool depths of the creek into the shock of sunlight, trying to breathe and finding hot air instead of soft water. It must feel like it's drowning. He wondered if he'd ever be able to fish again. But he didn't say anything, just headed downstream with the creel. The sun was setting, now, but still he watched his wife, from a distance. He couldn't make out the color of her clothes, now. Saw only the glow of her hair, the small patch of light reflecting on the pole. She was beautiful, he realized.
"Better come in, now," he called to Maggie, three fish later.
Maggie lowered the pole, stood still, maybe looking into the water, maybe looking at nothing. John couldn't tell. Just noticed her pull up straight, shake her head once or twice, then turn to call out to him.
"Yeah, all right. I'm finished, here, anyway. I'm all done," she said.
And to John her voice sounded too loud, bouncing off the surface of the creek like a clumsy skipping stone, hitting him in the face with a cold shock.
"You hear me, John? I'm done."
He turned his back to her, then took the fish out of the creel, killed them with a few blows on the rocks, and started gutting them.
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